Ss^v 


son 


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in  2012  with  funding  from 

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LAYS 


LOYE   AND   FAITH. 


OTHER  FUGITIVE  POEMS. 


BY 


GEO.  W.  BETHUNE. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
LINDSAY    AND   BLAKISTON. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847, 

By  Lindsay  &  Blakiston, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


C.    SHERMAN,    PRINTER. 
19  St.  James  Street. 


logical  Se«*£ 


As  one  arranges  in  a  simple  vase, 

A  little  store  of  unpretending  flowers, 

So  gathered  I  some  records  of  past  hours, 
And  trust  them,  gentle  reader,  to  thy  grace ; 
Nor  hope  that  in  my  pages  thou  wilt  trace 

The  brilliant  proof  of  high  poetic  powers ; 
But  dear  memorials  of  my  happy  days, 

When  Heaven  shed  blessings  on  my  heart,  like  showers 
Clothing  with  beauty  ev'n  the  desert  place ; 
Till  I,  with  thankful  gladness  in  my  looks, 

Turned  me  to  God,  sweet  nature,  loving  friends, 
Christ's  little  children,  well-worn  ancient  books, 

The  charm  of  art,  the  rapture  music  sends ; 
And  sang  away  the  grief  that  on  man's  lot  attends. 


CONTENTS 


Sonnet  to  the  Reader,              -              -              -              -  -        3 

Invocation,           -             -              -             -              -             -  13 

To  my  Mother,          -              -             -              -              -  -       16 

To  my  Wife,       ......  20 

I  loved  thee  when  in  earlier  years,      -              -             -  23 

Far  over  Helle's  rapid  wave,        ....  25 

Cling  to  thy  Mother,                -             -             -              -  -      26 

Live  to  do  Good,               .....  29 

Music  in  the  Heart,   -             -              -             -              -  -      31 

Mary,     .......  S3 

Susie,            -             -             -              -              -             -  -35 

Early  Lost,  Early  Saved,              ....  37 

"  Of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,"            -              -  41 

Anemones,          ......  43 

Violets,         -             -              -              -             -              -  45 

I  know  not  that  thou'rt  beautiful,                ...  47 

To  a  Young  Friend,  -             -             -             -             -  49 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Lines  on  Leaving  the  Manor-House,  Albany,         -             -  53 

O  let  me  gaze  into  thine  eyes,             -              -             -  54 

Night  Study,       ------  58 

T'was  on  a  blessed  morning,               -             -             -  -      61 

"  To  be  or  not  to  be,"      .             ....  66 

Lines  after  a  Visit  to  Laurel  Hill,                     -             -  -      67 

To  my  Friend's  Bride,  with  a  Bible,          ...  69 

There  is  a  nobler  strife  than  clashing  spears,  -             -  73 

Hymn  to  Night,                -             -             -             -             -  74 

Song — I  lately  plucked  an  opening  rose,          -             -  77 

Song  of  the  Rhinelander,               -             -             -              -  78 

Spare  the  Birds,         -             -             -             -             -  -       80 

Words  for  Music,             -              -             -             -             -  83 

Patriotic  Hymn,         -  -  ...       85 

The  Fourth  of  July,        -----  87 

Song — My  Country,  oh!  my  Country,              -             -  -       92 

I  see  thee  sweetly  smile,  -             -             -              -  94 

I  have  no  heart  to  sing,           -              -              -  -      96 

She's  fresh  as  breath  of  summer  morn,  98 

of  the  Tee-totaller,     -             -              -              -  -    100 

Songs  in  the  Scottish  Dialect. 

0  sing  to  me  the  auld  Scotch  sangs,           -              -  102 

1  hae  a  cup  o'  gude  red  wine,                -              -  -    104 
O  happy  was  the  gloamin'  when,  -              -              -  106 

Sonnet,  on  a  Picture  of  the  Magdalene  Asleep,             -  -    109 

Translation  of  Zappi's  Sonnet  on  Raffaelle's  Portrait ,         -  110 


CONTENTS.  vii 

Translation  from  Catullus,    -             -  -             -             -       111 

from  Tibullus,          -              -  -              -              113 

from  Horace,  Ode  I.  38,  -              -             -       118 
Epigrams,  Translated. 

On  Venus  Armed,           -             -  -             ■              319 

On  a  Portrait,            -              ■  -             -             -       119 

Go,  Robber,  past,             -             -  -             -              119 

Epigrams,  Original. 

Mortuse,       -             -             -  -             -             -       120 

Infideli,                .....  121 

In  imaginem  puellae,               -  -              -                      121 

On  a  Malicious  Person,  -             -  -             -              121 

Epigrams,  Religious. 

On  a  wayside  Fountain,        -  -              -                     122 

Hebrews  iv.  9,    -             -             -  -             -             122 

Hebrews  iv.  10,                      -  -             -             -       122 

Philippiansii.  12,  13,  123 

Lux  in  Tenebris,  Tenebrse  in  Luce,  -              -       123 

Version  of  Psalm  IX.,    -             -             -  -             -             124 

XIX., 128 

XXIII.,           -             -  -             .             131 

CXXVI.,              -  .             .             .133 

CXXXVIL,    -             -  .             .             135 

Translation  of  an  Ancient  Greek  Chaunt,  -             -             -       137 

Hymn  from  Novalis,      -             -             -  -             .             139 

Hymn  from  the  French,       -             -  -             -             -       141 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Christmas  Carols  for  Sunday  School  Children. 

The  Almighty  Spirit,             -  -             -             -       143 

Joy  and  gladness,             -  -              -              -              146 

Full  many  a  year  hath  sped,  -             -                     149 

We  come,  we  come,        -  -             -             -              152 

Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  the  Orphan  Asylum  Chapel,  Bloom- 

ingdale,            -             -             -  -             -             -       154 

Hymn  for  Easter,           -             -  -             -             -              156 

Prayer  for  the  Spirit,            -             -  -             -             -       158 

Lines  written  in  Sickness,           -  -             -              .              160 

Prayer — 1  Cor.  xiii.             -              -  -             -             -       162 

"  Alone,  yet  not  Alone,"             -  -             -             .              it>6 

Sailor's  Hymn,        -             -             -  -              .             -       168 

Missionary  Hymn,         -              -  -              -             -              170 

Joy  of  Angels,        -              -             -  -             .             -       172 

Christ  at  the  Well  of  Sychar,     -  -             -             .             174 

Christ  Washing  the  Disciples'  Feet,  -             -             -       176 

O  that  the  soul  of  Luther,          -  -             -             .              179 

Sabbath  Evening,    -              -              -  -             -             -       182 


POEMS 


INVOCATION. 

Hushed  is  their  song ; — from  long-frequented  grove, 

Pale  Memory,  are  thy  bright-eyed  daughters  gone ; 
No  more  in  strains  of  melody  and  love, 

Gush  forth  thy  sacred  waters,  Helicon  ; 
Prostrate  on  Egypt's  plain,  Aurora's  son, 

God  of  the  sunbeam  and  the  living  lyre, 
No  more  shall  hail  thee  with  mellifluous  tone ; 

Nor  shall  thy  Pythia,  raving  from  thy  fire, 
Speak  of  the  future  sooth  to  those  who  thee  inquire. 

No  more  at  Delos,  or  at  Delphi  now, 

Or  even  at  mighty  Ammon's  Lybian  shrine, 

2 


14  INVOCATION. 

The  white-robed  priests  before  the  altar  bow, 
To  slay  the  victim  and  to  pour  the  wine, 

While  gifts  of  kingdoms  round  each  pillar  twine  ; 
Scarce  can  the  classic  pilgrim,  sweeping  free 

From  fallen  architrave  the  desert  vine, 
Trace  the  dim  names  of  their  divinity — 

Gods  of  the  ruined  temples,  where,  oh  !  where  are  ye  ? 

The  Naiad  bathing  in  her  crystal  spring, 

The  guardian  Nymph  of  every  leafy  tree, 
The  rushing  iEolus  on  viewless  wing, 

The  flower-crowned  Queen  of  every  cultured  lea, 
And  He  who  walked  with  monarch-tread  the  sea, 

The  awful  Thunderer,  threatening  them  aloud, 
GOD  !  were  their  vain  imaginings  of  Thee, 

Who  saw  Thee  only  through  the  illusive  cloud 
That  sin  had  flung  around  their  spirits  like  a  shroud. 

As  fly  the  shadows  of  uncertain  night, 

On  misty  vapours  of  the  early  day, 
When  bursts  o'er  earth  the  sun's  resplendent  light, 

Fantastic  visions,  they  have  passed  away, 


INVOCATION.  15 

Chased  by  the  purer  Gospel's  orient  ray. 

My  soul's  bright  waters  flow  from  out  thy  throne, 
And  on  my  ardent  breast  thy  sunbeams  play ; 

Fountain  of  thought !  True  Source  of  light !  I  own, 
In  joyful  strains  of  praise,  thy  sovereign  power  alone. 

O  breathe  upon  my  soul  thy  Spirit's  fire, 

That  I  may  glow  like  seraphim  on  high, 
Or  rapt  Isaiah  kindling  o'er  his  lyre ; — 

And  sent  by  Thee  let  holy  Hope  be  nigh, 
To  fill  with  prescient  joy  my  ravished  eye, 

And  gentle  Love,  to  tune  each  jarring  string 
Accordant  with  the  heavenly  harmony  ; 

Then  upward  borne,  on  Faith's  aspiring  wing, 
The  praises  of  my  God  to  listening  earth  I  sing. 


TO    MY   MOTHER. 

My  mother !     Manhood's  anxious  brow 

And  sterner  cares  have  long  been  mine ; 
Yet  turn  I  fondly  to  thee  now, 
As  when  upon  thy  bosom's  shrine 
My  infant  griefs  were  gently  hushed  to  rest, 
And  thy  low-whispered  prayers  my  slumbers  blest. 

I  never  call  that  gentle  name, 

My  mother !  but  I  am  again 
E'en  as  a  child ;  the  very  same 

That  prattled  at  thy  knee ;  and  fain 
Would  I  forget,  in  momentary  joy, 
That  I  no  more  can  be  thy  happy  boy ; 

Thine  artless  boy,  to  whom  thy  smile 
Was  sunshine,  and  thy  frown  sad  night ; 


TO   MY    MOTHER.  17 

(Though  rare  that  frown,  and  brief  the  while 
It  veiled  from  me  thy  loving  light ;) 
For  well-conned  task,  ambition's  highest  bliss 
To  win  from  thy  approving  lips  a  kiss. 

I've  lived  through  foreign  lands  to  roam, 

And  gazed  on  many  a  classic  scene ; 
But  oft  the  thought  of  that  dear  home, 
Which  once  was  ours,  would  intervene, 
And  bid  me  close  again  my  languid  eye, 
To  think  of  thee,  and  those  sweet  days  gone  by. 

That  pleasant  home  of  fruits  and  flowers, 

Where  by  the  Hudson's  verdant  side, 
My  sisters  wove  their  jasmine  bowers, 
And  he  we  loved,  at  eventide 
Would  hastening  come,  from  distant  toil  to  bless 
Thine  and  his  children's  radiant  happiness  ! 

Those  scenes  are  fled ;  the  rattling  car 
O'er  flint-paved  streets  profanes  the  spot, 

Where  in  the  sod  we  sowed  the  "  Star 
Of  Bethlehem"  and  "  Forget-me-not ;" 

2* 


18  TO    MY   MOTHER. 


Oh  !  Wo  to  Mammon's  desolating  reign, 
We  ne'er  shall  find  on  earth  a  home  again ! 


I've  pored  o'er  many  a  yellow  page 

Of  ancient  wisdom,  and  have  won, 
Perchance,  a  scholar's  name ;  yet  sage 
Or  poet  ne'er  have  taught  thy  son 
Lessons  so  pure,  so  fraught  with  holy  truth, 
As  those  his  mother's  faith  shed  o'er  his  youth. 

If  e'er  through  grace  my  God  shall  own 

The  offerings  of  my  life  and  love, 
Methinks,  when  bending  close  before  his  throne, 
Amid  the  ransomed  hosts  above, 
Thy  name  on  my  rejoicing  lips  shall  be, 
And  I  will  bless  that  grace  for  heaven  and  thee ! 

For  thee  and  heaven ;  for  thou  didst  tread 

The  way  that  leads  to  that  blest  land ; 
My  often  wayward  footsteps  led, 

By  thy  kind  words  and  patient  hand ; 
And  wThen  I  wandered  far,  thy  faithful  call 
Restored  my  soul  from  sin's  deceitful  thrall. 


TO    MY   MOTHER.  19 

I  have  been  blest  with  other  ties, 

Fond  ties  and  true,  yet  never  deem 
That  I  the  less  thy  fondness  prize. 
No,  mother !  in  the  warmest  dream 
Of  answered  passion,  through  this  heart  of  mine, 
One  chord  will  vibrate  to  no  name  but  thine  ! 

Mother  !  thy  name  is  widow ;  well 

I  know  no  love  of  mine  can  fill 
The  waste  place  of  thy  heart,  nor  dwell 
Within  one  sacred  recess ;  still, 
Lean  on  the  faithful  bosom  of  thy  son, 
My  parent !  thou  art  more — my  only  one  ! 


TO   MY   WIFE. 

Afar  from  thee,  the  morning  breaks, 

But  morning  brings  no  joy  to  me ; 
Alas !  my  spirit  only  wakes 

To  know  I  am  afar  from  thee ; 
In  dreams  I  saw  thy  blessed  face, 

And  thou  wert  nestled  on  my  breast ; 
In  dreams  I  felt  thy  fond  embrace, 

And  to  mine  own  thy  heart  was  pressed. 

Afar  from  thee !     'Tis  solitude, 

Though  smiling  crowds  around  me  be, 

The  kind,  the  beautiful,  the  good, 
For  I  can  only  think  of  thee ; 

Of  thee,  the  kindest,  loveliest,  best, 
My  earliest  and  my  only  one ; 


TO  MY   WIFE.  21 

Without  thee,  I  am  all  unblest, 

And  wholly  blest  with  thee  alone. 

Afar  from  thee  !     The  words  of  praise 

My  listless  ear  unheeded  greet ; 
What  sweetest  seemed  in  better  days, 

Without  thee  seems  no  longer  sweet : 
The  dearest  joy  fame  can  bestow, 

Is  in  thy  moistened  eye  to  see, 
And  in  thy  cheek's  unusual  glow, 

Thou  deem' st  me  not  unworthy  thee. 

Afar  from  thee  !     The  night  is  come, 

But  slumbers  from  my  pillow  flee ; 
I  cannot  rest  so  far  from  home, 

And  my  heart's  home  is,  love,  with  thee ! 
I  kneel  before  the  throne  of  prayer, 

And  then  I  know  that  thou  art  nigh, 
For  God,  who  seeth  everywhere, 

Bends  on  us  both  his  watchful  eye. 

Together  in  His  loved  embrace, 
Xo  distance  can  our  hearts  divide  : 


22  TOMYWIFE. 

Forgotten  quite  the  mediate  space, 
I  kneel  thy  kneeling  form  beside ; 

My  tranquil  frame  then  sinks  to  sleep, 
But  soars  the  spirit  far  and  free ; 

O  welcome  be  night's  slumbers  deep, 
For  then,  dear  love,  I  am  with  thee. 


T  0    . 

I  loved  thee  when  in  earlier  years, 

Thy  pulse  with  health  beat  high, 
And  none  but  childhood's  passing  tears 

Had  wret  thy  gentle  eye ; 
Ere  pain  had  set  its  sign  upon 

That  fair  and  open  brow, 
While  through  thy  cheek  the  wrarm  blood  shone, 

Like  summer's  sunset  glow. 

But  now  that  pulse  is  faint  and  weak, 

Or  flushed  with  hectic  fire ; 
And  wan  and  pale  that  once  bright  cheek, 

Which  fed  my  young  desire. 
Long  suffering's  trace  is  on  thy  brow, 

And  dim  though  sweet  thine  eye ; 


24  TO   . 

But  thou  art  dearer  to  me  now, 
Than  e'er  in  years  gone  by. 

Yes !  dearer  e'en  than  when  I  heard, 

In  low  and  murmuring  tone, 
From  thee  the  one  confiding  word, 

That  made  thee  all  my  own : 
Yes,  lovelier  art  thou  now  to  me, 

Than  when  in  beauty's  pride, 
I  blessed  thee  for  thy  constancy, 

And  clasped  thee  as  my  bride. 

Fade  as  thou  wilt,  thy  spirit  seems 

Purer  within  to  shine ; 
And  through  that  smile  it  ever  beams 

Its  loveliness  on  mine. 
My  only  one  !  so  close  I've  worn 

Thee  to  my  fearful  heart, 
That  when  from  me  away  thou'rt  torn, 

Its  strings  must  rend  apart. 


TO   . 

Far  over  Helle's  rapid  wave, 

From  Sestos'  temple  height, 
Young  Hero's  lamp  sweet  promise  gave, 

Through  the  dark,  stormy  night ; 
Leander  saw — his  fearless  breast 

Dashed  through  the  rushing  tide, 
To  win  her  welcome  to  his  rest 

From  peril,  by  her  side. 

Thus  has  thy  true  love  been  to  me 

The  hope  that  led  me  on, 
A  star  upon  life's  troubled  sea, 

When  other  lights  were  gone ; 
Cheerful  through  all  the  strife  I  press, 

So  that  I  see  the  while 
My  meed  and  earnest  of  success, 

In  thy  fond  faithful  smile. 


CLING   TO   THY   MOTHER! 

Cling  to  thy  mother ;  for  she  was  the  first 
To  know  thy  being,  and  to  feel  thy  life ; 

The  hope  of  thee  through  many  a  pang  she  mirst; 
And  when,  'midst  anguish  like  the  parting  strife, 

Her  babe  was  in  her  arms,  the  agony 

Was  all  forgot,  for  bliss  of  loving  thee. 

Be  gentle  to  thy  mother ;  long  she  bore 
Thine  infant  fretfulness  and  silly  youth ; 

Nor  rudely  scorn  the  faithful  voice  that  o'er 

Thy  cradle  prayed,  and  taught  thy  lispings  truth. 

Yes,  she  is  old ;  yet  on  thine  adult  brow 

She  looks,  and  claims  thee  as  her  child  e'en  now. 

Uphold  thy  mother ;  close  to  her  warm  heart 
She  carried,  fed  thee,  lulled  thee  to  thy  rest; 


CLING   TO    THY   MOTHER.  27 

Then  taught  thy  tottering  limbs  their  untried  art, 

Exulting  in  the  fledgling  from  her  nest : 
And,  now  her  steps  are  feeble,  be  her  stay, 
Whose  strength  was  thine  in  thy  most  feeble  day. 

Cherish  thy  mother ;  brief  perchance  the  time 
May  be,  that  she  will  claim  the  care  she  gave ; 

Past  are  her  hopes  of  youth,  her  harvest  prime 
O  f  joy  on  earth ;  her  friends  are  in  the  grave  : 

But  for  her  children,  she  could  lay  her  head 

Gladly  to  rest  among  her  precious  dead. 

Be  tender  with  thy  mother ;  words  unkind, 
Or  light  neglect  from  thee,  will  give  a  pang 

To  that  fond  bosom,  where  thou  art  enshrined 
In  love  unutterable,  more  than  fang 

Of  venomed  serpent.*   Wound  not  that  strong  trust, 

As  thou  wouldst  hope  for  peace  when  she  is  dust. 

O  mother  mine !  God  grant  I  ne'er  forget, 
Whatever  be  my  grief,  or  what  my  joy, 

*  "  How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is 
To  have  a  thankless  child !" — Lear. 


28  CLING   TO    THY   MOTHER. 

The  unmeasured,  unextinguishable  debt 

I  owe  thy  love  ;  but  make  my  sweet  employ, 
Ever  through  thy  remaining  days  to  be 
To  thee  as  faithful,  as  thou  wert  to  me. 


LIVE    TO    DO    GOOD. 

Live  to  do  good ;  but  not  with  thought  to  win 
From  man  return  of  any  kindness  done ; 

Remember  Him  who  died  on  cross  for  sin, 
The  merciful,  the  meek,  rejected  One ; 

When  He  was  slain  for  crime  of  doing  good, 

Canst  thou  expect  return  of  gratitude  ? 

Do  good  to  all ;  but  while  thou  servest  best, 
And  at  thy  greatest  cost,  nerve  thee  to  bear, 

When  thine  own  heart  with  anguish  is  opprest, 
The  cruel  taunt,  the  cold  averted  air, 

From  lips  which  thou  hast  taught  in  hope  to  pray, 

And  eyes  whose  sorrows  thou  hast  wiped  away. 

Still  do  thou  good ;  but  for  His  holy  sake 
Who  died  for  thine ;  fixing  thy  purpose  ever 


30  LIVETODOGOOD. 

High  as  His  throne  no  wrath  of  man  can  shake ; 

So  shall  He  own  thy  generous  endeavour, 
And  take  thee  to  His  conqueror's  glory  up, 
When  thou  hast  shared  the  Saviour's  bitter  cup. 

Do  nought  but  good ;  for  such  the  noble  strife 
Of  virtue  is,  'gainst  wrong  to  venture  love, 

And  for  thy  foe  devote  a  brother's  life, 
Content  to  wait  the  recompense  above ; 

Brave  for  the  truth,  to  fiercest  insult  meek, 

In  mercy  strong,  in  vengeance  only  weak. 


MUSIC   IN   THE    HEART. 


A  simple  race,  they  waste  their  toil 
For  the  vain  tribute  of  a  smile." — Scott. 


'Tis  not  in  hope  to  win 
The  world's  vain  smile,  that  thus  I  frequent  pour 
My  artless  song  ; — 'tis  that  the  cup  runs  o'er — 

I  cannot  keep  within 
The  gushing  thoughts  that  struggle  to  have  way, 
Flowing  in  unpremeditated  lay. 

The  rock,  struck  by  the  rod, 
Shed  streams  of  gladness  on  the  desert  plain, 
So  from  my  ruder  heart  flows  forth  the  strain, 

Touched  by  thy  grace,  O  God  ! 
The  saddest  day  has  lost  its  gloom  for  me, 
If  I  may  sing  at  eventide  to  Thee. 


32  MUSIC    IN    THE   HEART. 

Thou,  who  the  bird  has  taught 
Its  tune,  the  brook  to  gurgle,  and  the  breeze 
To  make  sweet  music  with  the  forest  trees, 

Within  my  soul  hast  wrought 
The  charm  divine,  to  cheer  me  on  my  way 
To  that  bright  world  where  angels  sing  for  aye. 

Mine  is  no  lofty  lyre, 
Nor  lute  voluptuous, — nor  the  poet's  meed 
Of  laurel  crown ; — a  simple  pastor's  reed 

Responds  my  meek  desire 
To  breathe,  obscure  from  men,  into  thine  ear, 
My  God,  the  strain  which  they  would  scorn  to  hear. 

Yet,  if  its  numbers  might 
Win  back  unto  thy  fold  some  wandering  sheep, 
Or  bid  some  pilgrim  sad  forget  to  weep, 

I  shall  have  rich  delight ; 
Nor  need  to  envy  then  the  proudest  name 
That  stands  emblazoned  on  the  roll  of  fame. 


MARY. 

F  ve  been  thinking  of  thee, 
Till,  like  a  melody, 
Ran  the  sweet  thoughts  to  me 
"Mary!  Mary!" 

My  heart  sings  like  a  bird, 
At  sound  of  that  sweet  word, 
The  sweetest  ever  heard  : 

"Mary!  Mary!" 

As  o'er  and  o'er  again 

I  am  murmuring  the  strain, 

Still  echoes  the  refrain  : 

"Mary!  Mary!" 


34  MARY. 


In  the  hush  of  midnight  deep, 
When  I  sink  to  tranquil  sleep, 
On  my  lips  the  charm  I  keep : 
"Mary!  Mary!" 

Then  in  dreams  I  quickly  glide 
To  thy  dear  faithful  side, 
My  love,  my  joy,  my  pride  : 
"Mary!  Mary!" 


SUSIE. 

What  shall  I  liken  thee  to,  Susie  ? 
What  shall  I  liken  thee  to  ? 
What  so  sweet  and  so  fair,  can  with  thee  compare  ? 

What  shall  I  liken  thee  to  ? 
Shall  I  call  thee  a  flower,  born  in  the  first  shower 

That  tells  us  the  spring-tide  is  here,  Susie  ? 
No,  the  flower  fades  away  at  the  close  of  the  day ; 
Thou  art  blooming  and  sweet  all  the  year,  Susie  ! 

What  shall  I  liken  thee  to,  Susie  ? 

What  shall  I  liken  thee  to  ? 
What  rings  out  so  free,  as  thy  laugh  full  of  glee  ? 

What  shall  I  liken  thee  to? 
Shall  I  call  thee  a  bird,  whose  warble  is  heard 
From  the  bough  of  the  blossoming  tree,  Susie  ? 


36  SUSIE. 

No,  the  bird's  song  is  still,  when  November  blows  chill ; 
Never  wind  shall  blow  coldly  on  thee,  Susie ! 

What  shall  I  liken  thee  to,  Susie  ? 
What  shall  I  liken  thee  to  ? 
What  so  precious  and  bright,  as  thy  face  of  delight? 

What  shall  I  liken  thee  to  ? 
To  brilliants  that  shine  like  stars  from  the  mine, 

Or  pearls  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  Susie  ? 
No,  the  gem  has  been  sold  for  silver  and  gold ; 
But  what  price  could  ever  buy  thee,  Susie  ? 

There's  nought  I  can  liken  thee  to,  Susie, 
There's  nought  I  can  liken  thee  to : 
Bird,  flowret,  and  gem,  alike  I  condemn ; 
There's  nought  I  can  liken  thee  to. 
Thou'rt  a  gift  from  above,  of  the  Father  of  love, 
Sent  to  call  our  hearts  upward  to  Him,  Susie ; 
His  smile  we  see  now  in  the  light  on  thy  brow ; 
God  grant  it  may  never  grow  dim,  Susie ! 


EARLY    LOST,   EARLY    SAVED. 

Within  her  downy  cradle,  there  lay  a  little  child, 
And  a  group  of  hovering  angels  unseen   upon   her 

smiled, 
When  a  strife  arose  among  them,  a  loving,  holy  strife, 
Which  should  shed  the  richest  blessing  over  the  new- 
born life. 

One   breathed   upon   her  features,  and   the   babe   in 

beauty  grew, 
With  a  cheek  like  morning's  blushes,  and  an  eye  of 

azure  hue ; 
Till  every  one  who  saw  her,  were  thankful  for  the 

sight 
Of  a  face  so  sweet  and  radiant  with  ever  fresh  delight. 

4 


38         EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  SAVED. 

Another  gave  her  accents,  and  a  voice  as  musical 

As  a  spring-bird's  joyous  carol,  or  a  rippling  streamlet's 

fall; 
Till   all   who   heard   her   laughing,  or   her  words  of 

childish  grace, 
Loved  as  much  to  listen  to  her,  as  to  look  upon  her 

face. 

Another  brought  from  heaven  a  clear  and  gentle  mind, 

And  within  the  lovely  casket  the  precious  gem  en- 
shrined ; 

Till  all  who  knew  her  wondered,  that  God  should  be 
so  good, 

As  to  bless  with  such  a  spirit  a  world  so  cold  and 
rude. 

Thus  did  she  grow  in  beauty,  in  melody,  and  truth, 
The   budding   of    her   childhood    just   opening    into 

youth  ; 
And   to  our   hearts  yet  dearer,  every  moment  than 

before, 
She  became,  though  we  thought  fondly,  heart  could 

not  love  her  more. 


EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  SAVED.         39 

Then  out  spake  another  angel,  nobler,  brighter  than  the 

rest, 
As  with  strong  arm,  but  tender,  he  caught  her  to  his 

breast : 
"  Ye  have  made  her  all  too  lovely  for  a  child  of  mortal 

race, 
But  no  shade  of  human  sorrow  shall  darken  o'er  her 

face; 

"  Ye  have  tuned  to  gladness  only  the  accents  of  her 

tongue, 
And  no  wail  of  human  anguish  shall  from  her  lips  be 

wrung ; 
Nor  shall  the  soul  that  shineth  so  purely  from  within 
Her  form   of  earth-born  frailty,  ever   know   a   sense 

of  sin. 

"  Lulled   in   my  faithful  bosom,  I  will  bear  her  far 

aw7ay, 
Where  there  is  no  sin,  nor  anguish,  nor  sorrow,  nor 

decay ; 
And  mine  a  boon  more  glorious  than  all   your  gifts 

shall  be — 
Lo  !  I  crown  her  happy  spirit  with  immortality  !" 


40  EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  SAVED. 

Then  on  his  heart  our  darling  yielded  up  her  gentle 

breath, 
For  the  stronger,  brighter  angel,  who  loved  her  best, 

was  Death  ! 


"OF    SUCH    IS   THE    KINGDOM    OF 
HEAVEN." 

I  heard  a  gentle  murmuring, 

O  ©' 

Twixt  laughter  and  a  tune, 
Or  like  a  full  brook  gurgling 

o       o         o 

Through  the  long  grass  in  June. 

I  traced  the  sound ;  an  infant  lay 

There  in  his  cradle-bed ; 
And  through  the  curtain  shone  a  ray 

Of  sunshine  on  his  head. 

It  flashed  from  off  each  golden  tress, 

Like  the  glory  painters  see 
Round  young  John  in  the  wilderness, 

Or  Christ  on  Mary's  knee. 

4* 


42        "OF   SUCH  IS   THE   KINGDOM   OF  HEAVEN.' 

The  child  put  up  his  little  hand, 

He  waved  it  to  and  fro ; 
And  words  I  could  not  understand, 

Seemed  from  his  lips  to  flow  ; 

Words  in  which  joy  and  love  would  blend, 

As  if  he  thought  the  while 
The  light  to  be  a  pleasant  friend, 

A  friend  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

Thus,  till  the  sunny  ray  grew  dim, 
As  it  passed  the  window-pane, 

He  murmured  on  his  happy  hymn, 
Then  fell  asleep  again. 

O  God  !  I  thought,  that  I  could  be 

Like  that  meek  little  child ; 
To  greet  thy  truth  which  smiles  on  me, 

With  brow  as  undefiled  ; 

And  then,  with  lips  as  innocent, 
And  heart  as  free  from  guile, 

Sing  of  thy  love  in  glad  content, 
Look  up,  and  see  thee  smile. 


ANEMONES. 

God  !  in  what  unsparing  showers, 
Hast  thou  lavished  these  fair  flowers ! 
On  the  slope  of  sunny  bank, 
'Mongst  the  budding  mosses  dank, 
At  the  dripping  steep  rock's  foot, 
Round  the  tall  tree's  swelling  root ; 
Everywhere  I  look,  I  see 
Springing  the  Anemone. 

The  swain  goes  whistling  to  his  work, 
The  hunter  seeks  in  copse  to  lurk, 
The  warrior  on  his  steed  pricks  by, 
And  love  casts  down  the  maiden's  eye, 
While  the  bent  man  with  hoary  hair, 
Is  plodding  on  in  grasping  care  ; 


44  ANEMONES. 

Few  have  time  or  glance  for  thee, 
Lowly,  sweet  Anemone. 

Like  thy  thousand  starry  eyes, 
Are  the  thoughts  that  in  me  rise, 
Whensoe'er  I  walk  abroad 
In  the  sun  or  shade  with  God ; 
Neither  toil,  nor  force,  nor  stealth, 
Meddle  with  the  boundless  wealth, 
Which  His  sweet  grace  gives  to  me, 
With  thy  flowers,  Anemone. 


VIOLETS. 

When  the  sou'west  winds  do  bring, 
For  the  earth's  awakening, 
Soft,  and  warm,  and  loving  breath, 
Quickening  Nature  from  her  death ; 
Look,  where  sunward,  as  he  sets, 
Leans  the  bank,  for  violets ! 

Under  leaves  of  tender  green, 
Shrinking,  modest  are  they  seen, 
Smiling  with  their  meek  blue  eyes, 
Where  the  perfumed  dewdrop  lies  : 
Happy  he  who  ne'er  forgets, 
Welcome  for  the  violets  ! 

So  when  past  the  hour  of  pain, 
Cheering  mercy  comes  again, 


46  VIOLETS. 

God  !  may  thankful  thoughts  arise, 
From  my  humble  heart  and  eyes ; 
Eyes  that  still  the  sorrow  wets, 
Like  the  gentle  violets. 


T  O 


I  know  not  that  thou'rt  beautiful  in  other  eyes  than 

mine; 
Nor  can  I  tell  the  nameless  charm  that  makes  this 

bosom  thine ; 
I  only  know  that  I  could  gaze  for  ever  on  that  face, 
And  see,  in  every  feature,  love,  in  every  gesture,  grace. 

The  slightest  touch  of  thy  soft  hand  goes  thrilling  to 

my  heart, 
Awakening  all  its  chords  to  joy,  as  by  a  minstrel's 

art; 
I  may  not  hear  the  slightest  tone  of  thy  low  liquid 

voice, 
Nor  feel  as  though  some  mystic  power  had  called  me 

to  rejoice. 


48  TO   . 

There  was  a  time  that  I  could  change  my  homage  at 

my  will, 
And  leave  the  lovely  one,  to  bend  before  a  lovelier 

still ; 
But  now  no  eyes  but  thine  seem  bright,  no  form  but 

thine  is  fair ; 
I'm  always  happy  where  thou  art,  and   happy  only 

there. 


TO   A   YOUNG   FRIEND. 

Are  there  not  moments  when  thy  heart  is  burning, 

Sweet  lady,  thy  young  happy  heart, 
With  strange  mysterious  sympathies ;  a  yearning 

To  walk  from  ruder  scenes  apart, 
Alone  with  holy  Nature ;  from  her  learning 
Wild  numbers,  and,  with  gentle  art, 
To  echo  back  her  voice  ? 
Hast  thou  not  felt  its  secret  chords  all  trembling, 
Like  the  iEolian  strings  to  the  glad  breeze, 
And  murmuring  music  fitfully  resembling 
Their  rich,  unearthly  symphonies? 
Oh !  well  mayst  thou  rejoice ; 
For  by  that  conscious  token, 
God  to  thy  heart  hath  spoken. 

5 


50  TOAYOUNGFRIEND. 

'Tis  He  who  taught  the  lark,  from  earth  up-springing, 

To  warble  forth  his  matin  strain  : 
And  the  pure  stream,  in  liquid  gushes  singing, 

Gladly  to  bless  the  thirsty  plain ; 
And  from  the  laden  bee,  when  homeward  winging 
With  tiny  song,  doth  not  disdain 
To  hear  the  voice  of  praise. 
There's  not  a  voice  of  Nature  but  is  telling 

(If  we  will  hear  that  voice  aright,) 
How  much,  when  human  hearts  with  love  are  swelling, 
His  blessed  bosom  hath  delight 
In  our  rejoicing  lays ; 
His  love,  that  never  slumbers, 
Taught  thee  these  tuneful  numbers. 

There  are  cold  hearts  will  bid  thee  check  the  gladness 

Of  thy  young  spirit,  in  the  flow 
Of  joyous  poesy  ;  and  say,  that  sadness 

Suits  better  with  our  world  of  wo ; 
That  minstrelsy  oft  ends  in  moaning  madness, 

As  thou  too  late  mayst  know ; 
O  lady,  heed  them  not ! 


TO   A   YOUNG   FRIEND.  51 

The  world,  'tis  true,  hath  many  a  shade  of  sorrow; 

Yet  we  have  gleams  of  bliss,  the  light 
Of  an  eternal  dawn ;  then  let  us  borrow 
Its  holy  hope,  to  keep  our  spirits  bright 
Here  in  our  darker  lot. 
The  angels  sing  in  heaven, 
And  song  to  thee  is  given. 

Hath  not  God  strewed  our  weary  way  with  flowers, 

And  clothed,  with  robe  of  many  a  hue, 
The  fragrant  meadows  and  the  woodland  bowers, 

Feeding  their  beauty  with  his  dew, 
Making  them  glad  with  sunshine  and  with  showers  ? 
Is  it  not  written  that  He  knew 
Himself  a  joy  divine, 
Amidst  young  Eden's  holy  trees,  when  walking 

There  his  children  sought  his  love  ? 
And  the  pure  spirit  still  may  hear  Him  talking 
Such  words  as  drew  rapt  Enoch's  soul  above. 
So  ask  Him  to  draw  thine  ; 
Seek  Him,  for  He  is  near  thee, 
Sing  to  Him,  He  will  hear  thee. 


52  TOAYOUNGFRIEND. 

Live  thou  with  God  in  nature ;  never  falter 

In  thy  communings  with  Him.     Be 
Like  those  blest  birds  we  read  of  in  the  Psalter, 

Who  found  a  home  from  peril  free 
In  God's  own  house,  and  nestled  near  His  altar, 
Making  it  ring  with  melody. 

That  temple  stands  no  more ; 
But  Nature  standeth  still ;  God's  holy  presence 

Abideth  with  us ;  and  the  offering 
Of  thankful  joy  to  Him,  whose  perfect  essence 
Is  perfect  Love,  our  glowing  lips  may  bring 
Till  this  brief  Jife  is  o'er ; 
And  in  a  brighter,  better, 
Our  spirits  know  no  fetter. 


LINES, 

ON    LEAVING    THE    MANOR-HOUSE,    ALBANY,    18  35. 

When  fainting  in  the  desert  heat, 

The  pilgrim  finds  some  greener  spot, 
Where  arching  palms  above  him  meet, 

And  the  fierce  sunbeams  reach  him  not ; 
But  streams  of  living  water  flow, 
To  slake  his  thirst  and  cool  his  brow ; 

He  lingers  long,  his  toil  forgot ; 
Then  sighs  to  think  that  o'er  the  plain, 
Must  lie  his  burning  way  again. 
— So  lingered  one  beneath  the  shade 

Of  these  ancestral  trees,  and  blest 
The  kind  hearts  that  his  welcome  made 

To  pleasant  food  and  quiet  rest, 
An  humble,  yet  an  honoured  guest; 
Then,  pausing  on  the  threshold  there, 
Left  for  his  thanks,  a  pilgrim's  prayer. 

5* 


T  O    — . 

O  let  me  gaze  into  thine  eyes, 
Those  gentle  eyes,  so  beautiful ! 
The  heavens  above  are  cold  and  dull, 

To  their  sweet  mysteries. 

In  them  I  read  of  God's  good  might, 
More  profitable  lessons  far, 
Than  in  the  most  resplendent  star ; 

They  show  a  world  more  bright. 

Within  their  lucid  depths,  live  Truth, 
Love,  Honour,  Meekness,  Courage,  Peace, 
Abounding  with  a  sure  increase, 

Immortal  in  their  youth  : 


TO  .  55 

Types  of  all  pure  and  noble  things 
Are  radiant  there  from  upper  skies; 
As  angels  once  in  Paradise 

Walked  with  their  folded  wings : 

Kind  motives,  fragrant  as  the  balm 
Of  healing ;  wishes  to  do  good, 
Soft  as  the  breeze  through  Gilead's  wood, 

That  breaketh  not  its  calm  : 

Hopes  of  a  better  life,  that  yearn 
As  exiles  for  their  place  of  birth ; 
Fires,  fed  with  incense  on  the  earth, 

Ascending  as  they  burn ; 

And  harmonies,  not  of  the  sense, 
But  thought,  such  as  just  spirits  sing, 
When  the  Unseen  is  listening 

Their  hush  of  joy  intense. 

Let  me  gaze  on,  till  I  forget 
Thine  outward  loveliness  of  form, 
And  know,  instead  of  passion  warm, 

A  higher  rapture  yet. 


56  TO  . 

Take  me  within  thy  heart;  unite 
My  soul  to  thine,  that  I  may  share 
The  holy  health  which  liveth  there, 
The  ever  deep  delight- 
Teach  me  thy  strength  of  patient  faith, 
The  lessons  thou  hast  learned  so  well 
From  sacred  suffering,  and  tell 
Me  what  God's  angel  saith. 

O  God,  'tis  no  idolatry, 
The  love  that  twines  me  round  thy  gift, 
Who  thus  my  weaker  soul  doth  lift 

Upward  with  hers  to  thee ! 

Thou  speakest  in  the  tempest  wind, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  lightning  fire ; 
But  most  thy  Presence  doth  inspire 

The  lowly,  Christ-like  mind. 

And  thy  wise  grace  hath  sent, 
In  the  sweet  life  and  words  of  her 
So  dear  to  me,  a  messenger 

Of  Christ  most  eloquent. 


TO    .  57 

O  !  call  her  not  to  leave  me ;  she 
May  wait  for  Heaven,  who  lives  so  near 
To  Thee  on  earth ;  till  both  shall  hear 

Thy  voice,  "  Come  up  to  me !" 


NIGHT    STUDY. 

I  am  alone ;  and  yet 
In  the  still  solitude  there  is  a  rush 

Around  me,  as  were  met 
A  crowd  of  viewless  wings ;  I  hear  a  gush 
Of  mystic  harmonies — heaven  meeting  earth, 
Making  it  to  rejoice  with  holy  mirth. 

Ye  winged  Phantasies, 
Sweeping  before  my  spirit's  conscious  eye, 

Calling  me  to  arise, 
To  go  forth  with  you  from  my  very  self,  and  fly 
Far  into  the  unseen,  unknown  immense 
Of  worlds  beyond  our  sphere;  What  are  ye?  Whence? 

Ye  eloquent  voices, 
Now  soft  as  breathings  of  a  distant  flute, 

Now  strong  as  when  rejoices 
The  trumpet  in  the  victory  and  pursuit ; 


NIGHT    STUDY.  59 

Strange  are  ye,  yet  familiar,  as  ye  call 

My  soul  to  wake  from  earth's  sense  and  its  thrall. 

I  know  you  now;  I  see 
With  more  than  natural  light ;  Ye  are  the  good, 

The  wise  departed;  Ye 
Are  come  from  heaven,  to  claim  your  brotherhood 
With  mortal  brother,  struggling  in  the  strife 
And  chains,  which  once  were  yours  in  this  sad  life. 

Ye  hover  o'er  the  page 
Ye  traced,  in  ancient  days,  with  glorious  thought 

For  many  a  distant  age ; 
Ye  love  to  watch  the  inspiration  caught 
From  your  sublime  examples,  and  to  cheer 
The  fainting  student  to  your  high  career. 

Ye  come  to  nerve  the  soul, 
(Like  him  who  near  the  A  toner  stood,  when  He, 

Trembling,  saw  round  Him  roll 
The  wrathful  portents  of  Gethsemane,) 
With  courage  strong :  the  promise  ye  have  known 
And  proved,  rapt  for  me  from  the  Eternal  throne. 


(50  NIGHT   STUDY. 

Still  keep,  O  !  keep  me  near  you, 
Compass  me  round  with  your  immortal  wings ; 

Still  let  my  glad  soul  hear  you 
Striking  your  triumphs  from  your  golden  strings ; 
Until  with  you  I  mount,  and  join  the  song, 
An  angel  like  you  'mid  the  white-robed  throng. 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED    BY    THE    FOLLOWING    PASSAGE    IN    A 
friend's    LETTER. 

"Last  week  I  buried  my  sweet  little  Mary;  she  was  three  years  and  two 
months  old,  and  had  been  ill  four  weeks.  She  was  born  on  the  Sabbath,  taken 
sick  on  the  Sabbath,  and  buried  on  the  Sabbath.  During  her  illness  she  seemed 
to  take  great  consolation  in  repeating  the  many  hymns  she  had  learned.  '  Mo- 
ther,' said  she  one  day,  '  I  will  meet  you  on  the  way  to  Jordan.'  We  thought 
she  was  asleep,  but  she  was  gone." — Rev.  J.  N.  Danforth. 

'Twas  on  a  blessed  morning  of  the  blessed  day  of  rest, 
I  clasped  thee,  as  a  gift  from  God,  first  to  a  father's 

breast ; 
And  sweetly  didst  thou  nestle  there,  a  thing  of  holy 

love, 
Till  soul  shone  out  thy  pleasant  face,  like  sunshine 

from  above ; 

6 


62  LINES. 

And  the  accents  of  thy  lisping  tongue  seemed,  to  my 

partial  thought, 
Like  music,  from  the  angel  guards  around  thy  pillow 

caught. 
We  called  thee  by  her  precious  name,  who  poured  the 

rich  perfume, 
With  tears,  upon  her  Master's  feet,  and  watched  his 

early  tomb. 
I  loved  thee  well,  how  tenderly  God  only  knows ;  but 

thou 
Art  clasped  unto  the  heart  of  One,  who  loves  thee 

better  now. 

'Twas  on  another  blessed  day,  'midst  the  Sabbath's 
holy  hush, 

When  first  we  marked  upon  thy  cheek  the  fever's 
hectic  flush ; 

And  a  shuddering  sense  of  mortal  ill  ran  through  thy 
gentle  frame, 

Till  we  dared  not  speak  the  fearful  thoughts  that  o'er 
our  spirits  came ; 

And  many  a  weary,  sleepless  night,  and  weary,  sleep- 
less day, 


LINES.  03 

We  watched,  beside  thy  burning  bed,  thy  young  life 

pass  away. 
Yet  there  was  joy  amidst  our  grief,  and  hope,  no  tears 

could  dim, 
As  we  listened  to  thy  whispered  prayers,  and  sweetly 

warbled  hymn  : 
Oh  !    faithfully  we   watched   thee   then,    amidst  thy 

pangs ;  but  thou 
Art  fallen  asleep  on  Jesus'  breast,  and  He  wrill  watch 

thee  now. 

And  yet  another  Sabbath  came,  but  we  left  the  house 

of  God, 
To  seek  for  thee  a  narrow  house  beneath  the  verdant 

sod  ; 
And  many  a  bitter  tear  was  shed,  as  we  sadly  asked 

for  room 
To  hide  our  loved  one  from  our  sight  within  the  silent 

tomb. 
Yet  upward  through  those  tears  to  heaven,  each  eye  in 

hope  was  cast, 
That  there  will  dawn  for  thee  a  day,  the  holiest  and 

the  last ; 


64  LINES. 

A  day  of  endless  life  and  joy,  of  fadeless,  cloudless 

light, 
When  God  Almighty  and  the  Lamb  shall  chase  away 

the  night. 
Oh !  lovely  wert  thou  in  our  eyes,  my  beautiful,  but 

thou 
Wilt  wake  with  God's  own  likeness  then  upon  thy 

cherub  brow. 

Thou  mayest  not  come  again  to  us ;  we  would  not  call 

thee  back, 
To  tread  with  us,  'midst  toil  and  gloom,  the  pilgrim's 

desert  track : 
But  oh !  that  He,  the  lowly  One,  would  grant  us  grace 

to  be 
Like  thee  in  childlike  gentleness,  and  meek  simpli- 
city; 
Then  shall  we  follow  where  thou  art,  and  in  the  trying 

day, 
When  we  must  tread  the  vale  of  death,  thou'lt  meet  us 

on  our  way, 
A  radiant  messenger  of  God,  sent  from  the  holy  throng 
Around  the  throne,  to  welcome  us  with  angel  harp  and 

song. 


LINES.  65 

Oh  !  blest  will  be  our  meeting  then,  in  that  pure  home 

on  high, 
Where  sin  no  more  shall  cloud  the  heart,  or  sorrow  dim 

the  eye ! 


6* 


"TO   BE    OR   NOT   TO    BE." 

When  the  heart  beats  high  with  youthful  pride, 
And  the  form  we  love  is  by  our  side ; 

When  friends  are  fond,  and  life  is  gay 
With  all  th'  enchantment  hope  can  give  ; 

Then  all  around  us  seems  to  say, 
O  what  a  pleasant  thing  to  live  ! 

But  when  youth's  glowing  fires  decay, 
And  the  form  we  love  has  passed  away ; 

When  hope  has  fled,  and  one  by  one 
Our  early  friends  in  silence  lie ; 

(If  God  would  say  our  work  was  done,) 
O  what  a  pleasant  thing  to  die  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN    AFTER    A    VISIT    TO    LAUREL    HILL. 

The  dead,  the  dead,  the  precious  dead, 
O  !  bear  them  far  from  the  noisy  tread 
And  crowded  haunts  of  busy  men, 
To  the  sunlit  mount  and  vine-clad  glen, 
Where  the  mourner,  bending  o'er  the  stone, 
May  pour  her  tears,  and  breathe  her  moan, 
In  the  luxury  of  grief,  alone ; 
And  no  profaner  step  intrude 
Upon  the  silent  solitude. 

The  dead,  the  dead,  the  Christian  dead, 
On  whose  parting  hour  Christ's  grace  was  shed, 
Let  them  lie  where  once  the  Master  slept, 
And  the  angels  vigil  o'er  him  kept ; 


68  LINES    ON   LAUREL   HILL. 

Amid  the  garden's  living  bloom, 

Where  grief  may  lose  all  thought  of  gloom, 

•In  the  verdure  rich,  and  soft  perfume, 

And  quell  the  murmuring  thoughts  that  rise, 

In  the  sweet  hope  of  Paradise. 

The  dead,  the  dead,  the  lowly  dead, 

O  !  make  with  them  my  last  low  bed, 

Not  in  the  enamel's  loathsome  cave, 

But  'neath  the  turf  of  the  verdant  grave ; 

There  let  my  "dust  return  to  dust," 

To  rest  in  hope  among  the  just, 

On  my  mother's  breast  in  holy  trust; 

Till  that  "  illustrious  morning"  break, 

When  "  they  who  sleep  in  dust  shall  wake." 


TO    MY   FRIEND'S    BRIDE,    WITH 
A   BIBLE. 

Lady,  I  send  no  costly  pearls, 
To  twine  among  thy  glossy  curls ; 
Nor  ask  to  place  upon  thy  hand 
The  brilliant  in  its  golden  band. 
Let  others  seek,  by  splendid  guise, 
To  win  the  gaze  of  wandering  eyes ; 
Thou  hast  no  need — that  form  and  face 
Asks  not  for  artificial  grace, 
And,  purer  than  the  diamond's  light, 
Beams  in  that  smile  thy  spirit  bright. 

Mine  is  an  humble  gift,  and  yet 
More  precious  than  the  coronet 
Upon  the  brow  of  Eastern  king, 
With  priceless  jewels  glittering ; 


70  TO    MY   FRIEND'S    BRIDE. 

For  thou  wilt  find  it  ever  be 
A  matchless  Talisman  to  thee, 
To  ward  afar  each  thing  of  sin, 
And  bless  thy  heart  with  peace  within  : 
The  spirit's  Cestus,  charming  love 
With  holy  beauty  from  above : 
A  faithful  Mirror,  in  whose  face 
Each  inner  feature  thou  may'st  trace, 
From  envy's  warping  censure  free, 
Or  falser  glare  of  flattery  : 
A  steady  and  abiding  Light, 
When  all  around  is  wrapt  in  night, 
Shedding  afar  its  guiding  ray, 
To  cheer  thee  in  thy  heavenward  way. 
And  when  thy  mind  with  doubt  is  dim, 
Or  sorrows  hush  thy  cheerful  hymn ; 
Or,  worn  with  trial,  faint  and  slow, 
Thy  feeble  steps  but  feebler  grow ; 
Then,  like  the  sage's  Telescope, 
'Twill  lift  thy  soul  above  the  earth, 
And  cheer  thee  with  a  joyful  hope 
Of  bliss  too  great  for  mortal  birth ; 


TO    MY   FRIEND'S   BRIDE.  71 

While  Heaven's  reflected  light  appears, 
A  rainbow  smiling  through  thy  tears. 
Or,  like  the  Italian  painter's  glass, 
Seen  through  its  mean,  away  shall  pass 
Each  sombre  hue,  and  earth  shall  be 
A  very  paradise  to  thee. 

Thus  precious  in  the  bloom  of  life, 
It  fails  not  in  the  final  strife  ; 
Though  sight  grow  dim,  and  cheek  wax  pale, 
And  heart  with  sick'ning  sense  shall  fail, 
Upon  thy  brow  its  power  will  stamp, 
Amid  the  death-dew  cold  and  damp, 
The  seal  of  God ;  and,  hovering  low, 
Angelic  ministers  will  know 
The  radiant  signature,  and  shed 
Heaven's  richest  odours  round  thy  bed  ; 
Then  changed,  the  fearful  enemy 
No  more  shall  king  of  terrors  be, 
But,  shine  before  thy  kindling  eye, 
Herald  of  immortality  ! 

Keep  it,  sweet  lady,  it  will  prove 
The  symbol  of  a  purer  love. 


72  TO   MY   FRIEND'S   BRIDE. 

Than  that  which  decks  thine  outward  mien 
With  orient  pearls,  and  diamond  sheen. 
Thy  fairer  mind  I  fain  would  bless 
"With  fadeless  gems  of  godliness. 


SONNET. 

There  is  a  nobler  strife  than  clashing  spears, 

A  nobler  peril  than  the  battle-field ; 

'Tis  when,  with  trust  in  God  worn  as  a  shield, 
'Midst  universal  hisses,  scoffs,  and  sneers, 
The  man  of  truth  with  brow  serene  appears, 

And  stands  forth  singly  for  the  right,  appealed 

To  the  Eternal  Umpire ;  nor  will  yield 
One  backward  step,  from  policy  or  fears. 

The  savage,  bandit,  nay,  the  brute,  is  steeled 
'Gainst  bristling  danger — e'en  the  worm  uprears 

Beneath  the  foot  his  tiny  sting,  to  crave 
A  venomed  vengeance ;  but  immortal  years 

Are  full  of  glory  for  the  Christ-like  brave, 
Who  dare  to  suffer  wrong,  that  they  from  wrong  may 
save. 

7 


HYMN   TO   NIGHT. 

(suggested  by  the  bas-relief  of  thorwaldsen.) 

Yes  !  bear  them  to  their  rest; 
The  rosy  babe,  tired  with  the  glare  of  day, 
The  prattler,  fall'n  asleep  e'en  in  his  play ; 

Clasp  them  to  thy  soft  breast, 
O  Night; 
Bless  them  in  dreams  with  a  deep-hushed  delight. 

Yet  must  they  wake  again, 
Wake  soon  to  all  the  bitterness  of  life, 
The  pang  of  sorrow,  the  temptation  strife, 

Ay,  to  the  conscience  pain : 
O  Night, 
Canst  thou  not  take  with  them  a  longer  flight  ? 


HYMN    TO    NIGHT.  75 

Canst  thou  not  bear  them  far, 
E'en  now,  all  innocent,  before  they  know 
The  taint  of  sin,  its  consequence  of  wo, 

The  world's  distracting  jar, 
O  Night, 
To  some  etherial,  holier,  happier  height? 

Canst  thou  not  bear  them  up, 
Through  starlit  skies,  far  from  this  planet  dim 
And  sorrowful,  e'en  while  they  sleep,  to  Him 

Who  drank  for  us  the  cup, 
O  Night, 
The  cup  of  wrath,  for  hearts  in  faith  contrite? 

To  Him,  for  them  who  slept 
A  babe  all  lowly  on  his  mother's  knee, 
And  from  that  hour  to  cross-crowned  Calvary, 

In  all  our  sorrows  wept, 
O  Night, 
That  on  our  souls  might  dawn  Heaven's  cheering  light? 

Go,  lay  their  little  heads 
Close  to  that  human  heart,  with  love  divine 
Deep-beating,  while  his  arms  immortal  twine 


76  HYMN    TO    NIGHT. 

Around  them,  as  He  sheds, 
O  Night, 
On  them  a  brother's  grace  of  God's  own  boundless  might. 

Let  them  immortal  wake 
Among  the  deathless  flowers  of  Paradise ; 
Where  angel  songs  of  welcome  with  surprise 

This  their  last  sleep  may  break, 
O  Night, 
And  to  celestial  joy  their  kindred  souls  invite. 

There  can  come  no  sorrow ; 
The  brow  shall  know  no  shade,  the  eye  no  tears, 
For,  ever  young,  through  Heaven's  eternal  years, 

In  one  unfading  morrow, 
O  Night, 
Nor  sin,  nor  age,  nor  pain,  their  cherub  beauty  blight. 

Would  we  could  sleep  as  they, 
So  stainless  and  so  calm — at  rest  with  thee, — 
And  only  wake  in  immortality  ! 

Bear  us  with  them  away, 
O  Night, 
To  that  etherial,  holier,  happier  height ! 


SONG. 

I  lately  plucked  an  opening  rose 

From  off  its  mossy  tree, 
To  bloom  amidst  the  bosom  snows 

Of  thy  sweet  purity ; 
But  in  an  hour,  the  hapless  flower 

Was  careless  flung  away, 
Its  fragrance  shed,  its  promise  fled, 

To  perish  where  it  lay. 

Full  many  a  rose  may  grow  beside 

Upon  that  mossy  tree  ; 
And  many  deck  the  bosom  pride 

Of  thy  sweet  purity  ; 
But,  wo  is  me !  I  gave  to  thee 

A  heart  thou  didst  disdain ; 
And  in  the  dust  lies  all  its  trust, 

Never  to  bloom  asfain. 


SONG  OF  THE  RHINELANDER  IN 
AMERICA. 

Count  it  not  strange,  if  'mid  the  throng 

Of  merry  hearts,  mine  is  not  gay ; 
And  that  I  sing  a  plaintive  song — 

My  heart  is  far  away. 
The  stranger's  thoughts  are  with  his  home, 

The  fatherland  across  the  brine  ; 
His  truant  feet  abroad  may  roam, 

His  heart  is  on  the  Rhine. 

O,  'tis  not  that  I  prize  the  less 
The  welcome  kind  ye  give  to  me ; 

It  is  a  faithful  tenderness 
For  love  beyond  the  sea. 

The  stranger's  eye  with  tears  is  dim, 

Though  wit  and  beauty  round  him  shine ; 


THE    RHINELANDER  IN   AMERICA.  79 

He  thinks  of  those  who  think  of  him, 
Beside  th'  abounding  Rhine. 

I  would  not  cast  one  shadow  o'er 

This  smiling  hour  of  social  mirth ; 
Yet  memory  bids  me  sigh  the  more 

For  my  far  distant  hearth. 
Rich  harmonies  around  me  gush, 

But  to  a  German  heart  like  mine, 
There  is  no  music  like  the  rush 

Of  thy  broad  stream,  O  Rhine  ! 


SPARE   THE    BIRDS. 

Spare,  spare  the  gentle  bird, 

Nor  do  the  warbler  wrong ; 
In  the  green  wood  is  heard 

Its  sweet  and  holy  song ; 
Its  song,  so  clear  and  glad, 

Each  listener's  heart  has  stirred, 
And  none,  however  sad, 

But  blessed  that  happy  bird. 

When,  at  the  early  day, 
The  farmer  trod  the  dew, 

It  met  him  on  the  way, 

With  welcome  blithe  and  true  ; 

So  when,  at  weary  eve, 
He  homeward  wends  again, 


SPARE    THE    BIRDS.  81 

Full  sorely  would  he  grieve 
To  miss  the  well-loved  strain. 

The  mother,  who  had  kept 

Watch  o'er  her  wakeful  child, 
Smiled  when  the  baby  slept, 

Soothed  by  its  wood-notes  wild ; 
And  gladly  has  she  flung 

The  casement  open  free, 
As  the  dear  warbler  sung 

From  out  the  household  tree. 

The  sick  man  on  his  bed 

Forgets  his  weariness, 
And  turns  his  feeble  head 

To  list  its  songs,  that  bless 
His  spirit,  like  a  stream 

Of  mercy  from  on  high, 
Or  music  in  the  dream 

That  seals  the  prophet's  eye. 

O  !  laugh  not  at  my  words, 

To  warn  your  thoughtless  hours ; 


82  SPARE   THE   BIRDS. 

Cherish  the  gentle  birds, 
Cherish  the  fragile  flowers : 

For  since  man  was  bereft 
Of  Paradise,  in  tears, 

God  these  sweet  things  hath  left 
To  cheer  our  eyes  and  ears. 


WORDS   FOR   MUSIC. 

I  love  to  sing  when  I  am  glad, 

Song  is  the  echo  of  my  gladness ; 
I  love  to  sing  when  I  am  sad, 

Till  song  makes  sweet  my  very  sadness. 
'Tis  pleasant  time,  when  voices  chime 

To  some  sweet  rhyme  in  concert  only ; 
And  song  to  me  is  company, 

Good  company,  when  I  am  lonely. 

Whene'er  I  greet  the  morning  light, 

My  song  goes  forth  in  thankful  numbers, 

And,  'mid  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
I  sing  me  to  my  welcome  slumbers. 

My  heart  is  stirred  by  each  glad  bird, 

Whose  notes  are  heard  in  summer's  bowers  ; 


I 


84  WORDS   FOR    MUSIC. 

And  song  gives  birth  to  friendly  mirth 
Around  the  hearth,  in  wintry  hours. 

Man  first  learned  song  in  Paradise, 

From  the  bright  angels  o'er  him  singing ; 
And  in  our  home,  above  the  skies, 

Glad  anthems  are  for  ever  ringing. 
God  lends  his  ear,  well  pleased  to  hear 

The  songs  that  cheer  His  children's  sorrow ; 
Till  day  shall  break,  and  we  shall  wake 

Where  love  will  make  unfading  morrow. 

Then  let  me  sing  while  yet  I  may, 

Like  him  God  loved,  the  sweet-tongued  Psalmist, 
Who  found,  in  harp  and  holy  lay, 

The  charm  that  keeps  the  spirit  calmest ; 
For  sadly  here  I  need  the  cheer, 

While  sinful  fear  with  promise  blendeth ; 
O  !  how  I  long  to  join  the  throng, 

Who  sing  the  song  that  never  endeth ! 


PATRIOTIC   HYMN. 

God's  blessing  be  upon 
Our  own,  our  native  land  ! 

The  land  our  fathers  won 

By  the  strong  heart  and  hand, 
The  keen  axe  and  the  brand ; 

When  they  felled  the  forest's  pride, 

And  the  tyrant  foe  defied, 

The  free,  the  rich,  the  wide : 
God  for  our  native  land  ! 

To  none  upon  a  throne 

But  God,  we  bend  the  knee ; 

No  noble  name  we  own 
But  noble  liberty ; 
Ours  is  a  brother-band  ; 

8 


86  PATRIOTIC    HYMN. 

For  the  spirit  of  our  sires 
Each  patriot  bosom  fires, 
And  the  strong  faith  inspires : 
God  for  our  native  land ! 

Up  with  the  starry  sign, 

The  red  stripes  and  the  white ! 
Where'er  its  glories  shine, 
In  peace  or  in  the  fight, 
We  own  its  high  command  ; 
For  the  flag  our  fathers  gave, 
O'er  our  children's  heads  shall  wave, 
And  their  children's  children's  grave 
God  for  our  native  land ! 

America !  to  thee, 

In  one  united  vow, 
To  keep  thee  strong  and  free, 

And  glorious  as  now, 

We  pledge  each  heart  and  hand ; 
By  the  blood  our  fathers  shed  ! 
By  the  ashes  of  our  dead ! 
By  the  sacred  soil  we  tread ! 

God  for  our  native  land  ! 


THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY. 

Maine ?  from  her  farthest  border,  gives  the  first  exulting 
shout, 

And  from  New  Hampshire's  granite  heights,  the  echo- 
ing peal  rings  out ; 

The  mountain  farms  of  staunch  Vermont  prolong  the 
thundering  call ; 

Massachusetts  answers  :  "  Bunker  Hill !"  a  watch- 
word for  us  all. 

Rhode  Island  shakes  her  sea- wet  locks,  acclaiming 
with  the  free, 

And  staid  Connecticut  breaks  forth  in  sacred  har- 
mony. 

The  giant  joy  of  proud  New  York,  loud  as  an  earth- 
quake's roar, 

Is  heard  from  Hudson's  crowded  banks  to  Erie's 
crowTded  shore, 


88  THEFOURTHOFJULY. 

New  Jersey,  hallowed  by  their   blood,  who  erst  in 

battle  fell, 
At  Monmouth's,  Princeton's,  Trenton's  fight,  joins  in 

the  rapturous  swTell. 
Wide  Pennsylvania,  strong  as  wide,  and  true  as  she 

is  strong, 
From  every  hill  to  valley,  pours  the  torrent  tide  along. 
Stand  up,  stout  little  Delaware,  and  bid  thy  volleys 

roll, 
Though  least  among  the  old  Thirteen,  wre  judge  thee 

by  thy  soul ! 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  Maryland  !  over  the  broad  Che- 
sapeake 
Her  sons,  as  valiant  as  their  sires,  in  cannonadings 

speak. 
Virginia,  nurse  of  Washington,  and  guardian  of  his 


g 


rave 


Now  to  thine  ancient  glories  turn  the  faithful  and  the 

brave ; 
We  need  not  hear  the  bursting  cheer  this  holy  day 

inspires, 
To  know  that,  in  Columbia's  cause,  "  Virginia  never 

tires." 


THE    FOURTH   OF   JULY.  89 

Fresh  as  the  evergreen  that  waves  above  her  sunny  soil, 
North  Carolina  shares  the  bliss,  as  oft  the  patriot's 

toil; 
And  the  land  of  Sumter,  Marion,  of  Moultrie,  Pinck- 

ney,  must 
Respond  the  cry,  or  it  will  rise  e'en  from  their  sleeping 

dust. 
And  Georgia,  by  the  dead  who  lie  along  Savannah's 

bluff, 
Full  well  we  love  thee,  but  we  ne'er  can  love  thee  well 

enough ; 
From  thy  wild  northern  boundary,  to  thy  green  isles 

of  the  sea, 
Where  beat  on  earth  more  gallant  hearts  than  now 

throb  high  in  thee? 
On,   on,    'cross   Alabama's   plains,   the    ever-flowery 

glades, 
To   where   the   Mississippi's   flood    the    turbid    Gulf 

invades ; 
There,  borne  from  many  a  mighty  stream  upon  her 

mightier  tide, 
Come  down  the  swelling  long  huzzas  from  all  that 

valley  wide, 

8* 


90  THE    FOURTH    OF    JULY. 

As  wood-crowned  Alleghany's  call,  from  all  her  sum- 
mits high, 

Reverberates  among  the  rocks  that  pierce  the  sunset 
sky; 

While  on  the  shores  and  through  the  swales,  'round 
the  vast  inland  seas, 

The  stars  and  stripes,  'midst  freemen's  songs,  are  flash- 
ing to  the  breeze. 

The  woodsman,  from  the  mother,  takes  his  boy  upon 
his  knee, 

To  tell  him  how  their  fathers  fought  and  bled  for 
liberty ; 

The  lonely  hunter  sits  him  down  the  forest  spring 
beside, 

To  think  upon  his  country's  worth,  and  feel  his  coun- 
try's pride; 

While  many  a  foreign  accent,  which  our  God  can  un- 
derstand, 

Is  blessing  Him  for  home  and  bread  in  this  free,  fertile 
land. 

Yes  !  when  upon  the  eastern  coast  we  sink  to  happy 
rest, 

The  Day  of  Independence  rolls  still  onward  to  the 
west, 


THE   FOURTH    OF    JULY.  91 

Till  dies  on  the  Pacific  shore  the  shout  of  jubilee, 
That   woke   the   morning   with   its   voice   along   the 

Atlantic  sea. 
— O  God  !  look  down  upon  the  land  which  thou  hast 

loved  so  well, 
And  grant  that  in  unbroken  truth  her  children  still 

may  dwell ; 
Nor,  while  the  grass  grows  on  the  hill  and  streams  flow 

through  the  vale, 
May  they  forget  their  fathers'  faith,  or  in  their  cove- 
nant fail ! 
God  keep  the  fairest,  noblest  land  that  lies  beneath 

the  sun ; 
"Our  country,  our  whole  country,  and  our  country 

ever  one !" 


SONG. 

(AT    MIDNIGHT,    IN    AN    ENGLISH    MAIL-COACH.) 

My  county,  oh  !  my  country, 

My  heart  still  sighs  for  thee, 
And  many  are  the  longing  thoughts 

I  send  across  the  sea. 
My  weary  feet  have  wandered  far, 

And  far  they  yet  must  roam  ; 
But  oh!  whatever  land  I  tread, 

My  heart  is  with  my  home. 

The  fields  of  merry  England 
Are  spreading  round  me  wide, 

The  verdant  vale,  and  castled  steep, 
In  all  their  ancient  pride ; 

But  give  to  me  my  own  wild  land, 
Beyond  the  salt  sea's  foam, 


SONG.  93 

For  there,  amid  her  forests  free, 
My  spirit  is  at  home. 

I've  listened,  at  the  sunset  hour, 

To  the  songs  of  merry  France, 
And  smiled  to  see  her  peasants  glad 

In  the  evening's  cheerful  dance ; 
But  sadness  chased  away  the  smile, 

As  I  thought,  far  o'er  the  sea, 
Of  the  pensive  group  round  the  sacred  hearth, 

Whose  hearts  were  sad  for  me. 

There's  no  home  like  my  own  home, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea ; 
The  land  of  beauty  and  of  worth, 

The  bright  land  of  the  free ; 
Where  royal  foot  hath  never  trod, 

Nor  bigot  forged  a  chain ; 

DO  " 

Oh !  would  that  I  were  safely  back 
In  that  bright  land  again ! 


SONG. 

I  see  thee  sweetly  smile, 

I  hear  thee  gaily  sing, 
But  I  am  sure  the  while 

Thy  heart  is  suffering. 
Thine  eye  is  never  glad, 

Thy  smile  quick  fades  away  ; 
Ah  !  well  I  know  that  thou  art  sad, 

Although  thy  song  be  gay. 

I've  marked,  unseen  by  thee, 

The  changes  of  thy  cheek, 
When  thy  heart  seemed  to  be 

So  full  thou  couldst  not  speak. 
The  tear,  oft  in  thine  eye, 

Is  instant  dashed  away, 
And  in  its  pauses  thou  dost  sigh, 

Although  thy  song  be  gay. 


SONG.  95 

I've  read  upon  thy  brow 

Smoothed  for  the  festive  crowd, 
Of  lonely  hours,  when  thou 

Art  desolately  bowed 
In  grief,  thou  now  wouldst  hide, 

But  then  will  have  its  way, 
And  flow  in  a  far  bitterer  tide, 

Because  thy  song  was  gay. 

Each  day  thy  cheek  grows  pale, 

And  thinner  than  before ; 
Thy  sweet  smile  soon  must  fail 

To  hide  thy  sadness  more. 
Alas  !  so  sweet  a  thing 

So  soon  should  pass  away  ! 
Thy  heart  is  breaking  string  by  string, 

Although  thy  song  be  gay. 


SONG. 

I  have  no  heart  to  sing, 
I  have  no  heart  to  play ; 

And  I  find  it  is  a  weary  thing 
To  pass  the  time  away. 

I  cannot  sleep  at  night, 
Or,  sleeping,  sadly  dream ; 

Then  wake  to  wish  'twere  light, 
And  catch  the  earliest  beam. 

I'm  sad  when  I'm  alone; 

And  yet  when  friends  are  round, 
The  merry  laugh,  the  merry  tone, 

Is  a  discordant  sound ; 


son  (I.  07 


And  I  steal  away  to  weep 
Where  no  light  eye  can  see ; 

Yet  wish  for  one  to  keep 
My  sadness  company. 


SONG. 

She's  fresh  as  breath  of  summer  morn, 

She's  fair  as  flowers  in  spring, 
And  her  voice  it  has  the  warbling  gush 

Of  a  bird  upon  the  wing ; 
For  joy  like  dew  shines  in  her  eye, 

Her  heart  is  kind  and  free ; 
'Tis  gladness  but  to  look  upon 

The  face  of  Alice  Lee. 

She  knows  not  of  her  loveliness, 

And  little  thinks  the  while, 
How  the  very  air  grows  beautiful 

In  the  beauty  of  her  smile  ; 
As  sings  within  the  fragrant  rose 

The  boney-ffath'ring  bee, 
So  murmureth  laughter  on  the  lips 

Of  gentle  Alice  Lee. 


B      N  r-  99 

How  welcome  is  the  rustling  breeze 

When  sultry  day  is  o'er  ! 
More  welcome  far  the  graceful  step, 

That  brings  her  to  the  door  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  gather  violets  ; 

But  0  !  how  blest  is  he, 
Who  wins  a  glance  of  modest  love, 

From  lovelv  Alice  Lee  ! 


SONG    OF    THE    TEE-TOTALLER. 

Let  others  sing  the  ruby  bright 

In  the  red  wine's  sparkling  glow; 
Dearer  to  me  is  the  diamond  light 

In  the  fountain's  purer  flow. 
The  feet  of  earthly  men  have  trod 

The  juice  from  the  bleeding  vine, 
But  the  stream  comes  pure  from  the  hand  of  God. 

To  fill  this  cup  of  mine. 
Then  give  me  the  cup  of  cold  water. 

The  pure  sweet  cup  of  cold  water; 
His  arm  is  strong,  though  his  toil  be  long, 

Who  drinks  but  the  clear  cold  water. 

The  dewdrop  lies  in  the  flowret's  cup, 
How  rich  is  its  perfume  now  ! 


S  O  XG    O  F    THE    TE  E-  TO  TALLER.  101 

And  the  thirsty  earth  with  joy  looks  up, 

When  Heav'n  sheds  rain  on  her  brow. 
The  brook  goes  forth  with  a  cheerful  voice, 

To  gladden  the  vale  along ; 
And  the  bending  trees  on  her  banks  rejoice 

To  listen  her  quiet  song. 
Then  give  me  the  cup  of  cold  water, 

The  pure  sweet  cup  of  cold  water ; 
For  bright  is  his  eye,  and  his  spirit  high, 

Who  drinks  but  the  clear  cold  water. 

The  lark  springs  up  with  a  lighter  strain, 

When  the  wave  has  washed  her  wing; 
And  the  steed  flings  back  his  thundering  mane 

In  the  might  of  the  crystal  spring. 
This  was  the  drink  of  Paradise, 

Ere  blight  on  its  beauty  fell ; 
And  the  buried  streams  of  its  gladness  rise 

In  every  moss-grown  well. 
Then  here's  for  the  cup  of  cold  water, 

The  pure  sweet  cup  of  cold  water ; 
Unto  all  that  live  will  Nature  give, 

But  a  drink  of  clear  cold  water. 
9* 


THE  AULD  SCOTCH  SANGS. 

(AFTER  HEARING  MR.  DEMPSTER  SING.) 

O  !  sing  to  me  the  auld  Scotch  sangs, 

F  the  braid  Scottish  tongue, 
The  sangs  my  father  loved  to  hear, 

The  sangs  my  mither  sung ; 
When  she  sat  beside  my  cradle, 

Or  croon'd  me  on  her  knee, 
An'  I  wad  na  sleep,  she  sang  sae  sweet, 

The  auld  Scotch  sangs  to  me. 

Yes!  sing  the  auld,  the  gude  auld  sangs, 

Auld  Scotia's  gentle  pride, 
O'  the  wimpling  burn  and  the  sunny  brae, 

An'  the  cosie  ingle-side; 


THE   AULD  SCOTCH   SANG  S.  103 

Sangs  o'  the  broom  an'  heather, 

Sangs  o'  the  trysting  tree, 
The  laverock's  lilt  and  the  gowan's  blink  ; 

The  auld  Scotch  sangs  for  me ! 

Sing  ony  o'  the  auld  Scotch  sangs, 

The  blythesome  or  the  sad  ; 
They  mak'  me  smile  when  I  am  wae, 

An'  greet  when  I  am  glad. 
My  heart  gaes  back  to  auld  Scotland, 

The  saut  tears  dim  mine  e'e, 
An'  the  Scotch  bluid  leaps  in  a'  my  veins, 

As  ye  sing  thae  sangs  to  me. 

Sing  on,  sing  mair  o'  thae  auld  sangs ; 

For  ilka  ane  can  tell 
O'  joy  or  sorrow  i'  the  past, 

Where  memory  loves  to  dwell ; 
Though  hair  win  gray,  and  limbs  win  auld, 

Until  the  day  I  dee, 
I'll  bless  the  Scottish  tongue  that  sings 

The  auld  Scotch  sangs  to  me. 


SONG. 

I  hae  a  cup  o'  gude  red  wine ; 

Wha  shall  I  pledge  it  wi'? 
Nane,  nane  shall  be  a  toast  o'  mine, 

Save  thee,  my  Mary,  thee. 
Then  here's  a  health  to  thee,  my  dear, 

Then  here's  a  health  to  thee ; 
For  its  hue  is  like  thy  bonnie  cheek, 

And  it  sparkles  like  thine  e'e ! 

I  hae  a  wreath  baith  rich  and  rare ; 

Whose  shall  the  posie  be ! 
Nane,  nane  shall  twine  it  'mid  their  hair, 

Save  thee,  my  Mary,  thee. 
Then  here's  a  wreath  for  thee,  my  dear, 

Then  here's  a  wreath  for  thee ; 
For  the  opening  rose  is  like  thy  mou', 

— There's  nae  flow'r  like  thine  e'e  ! 


SONG.  105 

I  hae  a  heart  baith  Jeal  and  kind; 

Wha  shall  be  queen  to  me  ? 
Nane,  nane  shall  rule  aboon  my  mind, 

Save  thee,  my  Mary,  thee. 
Then  here's  a  heart  for  thee,  my  dear, 

Then  here's  a  heart  for  thee ; 
And  if  it  e'er  should  grow  too  cauld, 

Just  warm  it  wi"  thine  e'e  ! 


SONG. 

O  !  happy  was  the  gloamin',  when 

I  gently  woo'd  and  won  thee, 
As  through  the  shadows  o'  the  glen 

The  young  moon  smiled  upon  thee. 
Thine  e'en  were  like  the  stars  aboon, 

Thy  step  was  like  the  fairy, 
And  sweeter  than  the  throstle's  tune 

Was  thy  saft  voice,  my  Mary. 
Thy  han'  in  mine,  my  cheek  to  thine, 

Our  beating  hearts  thegither, 
And  mair  than  a'  the  warld  beside 

Were  we  to  ane  anither. 

Fu'  mony  a  day  we  twa  hae  seen, 

Fu'  mony  a  day  o'  sorrow ; 
And  clouds  that  lowered  the  yester-e'en, 

Grew  blacker  on  the  morrow  ; 


SONG  107 

Yet  never  was  the  day  sae  sad, 

Nor  night  sae  mirk  and  eerie, 
But  ae  fond  kiss  could  mak  us  glad, 

My  ain  dear  faithfu'  Mary. 
Thy  han'  in  mine,  my  cheek  to  thine, 

Our  beating  hearts  themther, 
The  warld  might  frown,  but  what  cared  we, 

Sae  we  had  ane  anither  ? 

And  now,  as  in  the  gloamin'  sweet, 

When  first  my  passion  won  thee, 
I  homeward  come  at  e'en  to  meet 

And  fondly  gaze  upon  thee ; 
Tho'  locks  be  gray  on  ilka  brow, 

And  feet  be  slow  and  wearie, 
O,  ne'er  to  me  sae  dear  wert  thou, 

Nor  I  to  thee,  my  Mary. 
Thy  han'  in  mine,  my  cheek  to  thine, 

Our  beating  hearts  thegither, 
Whate'er  may  change,  thae  hearts  are  still 

The  same  to  ane  anither. 

The  gloamin'  dim  o'  passing  life, 
Is  fa'ing  gently  o'er  us ; 


108  SONG. 

And  here  we  sit,  auld  man  and  wife, 

Nor  dread  the  night  before  us ; 
For  we  maun  lift  to  heaven  hie 

A  lightsome  hope  and  cheerie, 
Nor  fear  to  lay  us  doon  and  dee, 

And  wak'  aboon,  my  Mary. 
Thy  han'  in  mine,  my  cheek  to  thine, 

Our  faithfu'  hearts  thegither; 
Welcome  be  death  to  tak'  the  ane, 

Gin  he  will  tak'  the  ither ! 


SONNET. 

ON    A    PICTURE    OF    THE    MAGDALENE    ASLEEP. 

Thy  tears  are  dried,  sweet  penitent;  no  more 

Abandoned  on  the  ground  we  see  thee  lie, 

The  precious  word  of  life  beneath  thine  eye, 
Searching  the  sacred  record  o'er  and  o'er 
To  find  His  grace  for  sins  thy  thoughts  deplore, 

Who  came  for  lost  ones  such  as  thee  to  die. 

— Thou  art  forgiven. — 'Neath  a  smiling  sky, 
E'en  as  thou  didst  with  upward  face  adore, 

(The  holy  Cross  clasped  closely  to  thy  breast, ^ 
Sleep  has  come  o'er  thee,  worn  and  wearied 

By  anxious  vigils  ;  yet  in  slumber  blest, 
Heaven's  radiant  glory  circles  round  thy  head, 

Filling  thy  soul  with  visions  of  that  rest 
Where  e'en  repentance  has  no  tears  to  shed ! 

10 


ZAPPI'S    SONNET 

ON    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    RAFFAELLE    BY    HIMSELF. 

And  this  is  RafFaelie  !     There,  in  that  one  face, 

So  sadly  sweet,  sought  Nature  to  portray 
His  own  high  dreams  of  nobleness  and  grace, 

The  all  of  genius  that  she  could  convey 
In  features  visible.     He  alone  could  trace 

The  great  Idea ;  nor  could  he  essay 
Upon  the  eternal  canvass  thus  to  place, 

Secure  in  beauty  far  beyond  decay, 
Another  form  so  glorious  as  his  own. 

E'en  eager  Death  held  in  suspense  his  dart : 
"How  shall  the  painter  from  his  work  be  known," 

He  asks,  "that  I  may  strike  him  to  the  heart?" 
"Fruitless  thy  rage,"  the  great  soul  gives  reply, 

"  Nor  image,  nor  its  author,  e'er  shall  die." 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

Suffenus,  whom  we  both  have  known  so  well, 
No  other  man  in  manners  can  excel ; 
Facetious,  courteous,  affable,  urbane, 
The  world's  approval  he  is  sure  to  gain. 
But,  would  you  think  it?  he  has  now  essayed 
To  be  a  bard,  and  countless  verses  made ; 
Perhaps  ten  thousand,  perhaps  ten  times  more, 
For  none  but  he  could  ever  count  them  o'er ; 
Not  scribbled  down  on  scraps,  as  one  does  when 
In  careless  rhymes  we  only  try  our  pen ; 
But  in  a  gilt-edged  book,  all  richly  bound, 
The  writing  ornate  with  a  care  profound, 
Rich  silken  cords  to  mark  each  favourite  part, 
The  cover,  ev'n,  a  monument  of  art. 
Yet  as  you  read,  Suffenus,  who  till  then 
Seemed  the  most  pleasant  of  all  gentlemen, 


112  TRANSLATION  FROM    CATULLUS. 

Becomes  offensive  as  the  country  boor, 

Who  milks  rank  goats  beside  his  cottage  door, 

Or  digs  foul  ditches  :  such  a  change  is  wrought 

By  verse  with  neither  sense  nor  music  fraught. 

So  crazed  is  he  with  this  same  wretched  rhyme, 

That  never  does  he  know  so  blest  a  time 

As  when  he  writes  away,  and  fondly  deems 

He  rivals  Homer's  god-enraptured  dreams ; 

And  wonders,  in  his  pride,  himself  to  see, 

The  very  pattern-pink  of  poesy. 

Alas !  Suffenus,  while  I  laugh  at  thee, 

The  world,  for  aught  I  know,  may  laugh  at  me. 

It  is  the  madness  of  each  one  to  pride 

Himself  on  that  t'were  better  far  to  hide ; 

Nor  know  the  faults  in  that  peculiar  sack, 

Which  iEsop  says  is  hanging  at  his  back. 


PASTORAL. 

IMITATED  FROM  TIBDLLDS. 

Let  him  who  will,  hoard  heaps  of  yellow  gold, 
Or  vast  domains  in  servile  culture  hold, 
And  tremble  sleepless,  lest  he  hear  afar 
The  trumpet  heralds  of  the  invader's  car. 
Secure  in  humble  quiet,  let  me  trim 
My  vines  and  orchards,  till  the  evening  dim 
Call  me  from  wholesome  labour,  to  retire 
Where  peace  awaits  me  by  mv  cottage  fire  ; 
Content  to  hope  that  autumn's  faith  will  bring 
Full  wages  for  the  industry  of  spring 
And  genial  summer's  sweat,  sufficient  store 
Of  corn  and  wine-vats  running  freely  o'er. 
He  never  trusts  in  vain,  who  owns,  like  me, 
A  Providence  o'er  soil,  and  vine,  and  tree, 
10* 


114  PASTORAL. 

And  fails  not  still  his  ready  thanks  to  pay 

At  village  church,  where  rustics  meet  to  pray, 

Whose  simple  porch,  entwined  with  creepers  green, 

And  tapering  spire,  across  the  mead  is  seen : 

Nor  there  alone,  but  when  by  day  a-field 

Spontaneous  praises  from  his  heart  will  yield ; 

Or,  kneeling  morn  and  eve  at  home,  before 

The  household  group,  recounts  their  mercies  o'er. 

Yes,  for  thy  sake,  Almighty  Source  of  all, 

The  poorer  stranger  at  my  door  may  call, 

Nor  empty  thence,  without  God  speed,  depart ; 

The  widow's  and  the  orphan's  saddened  heart 

Shall  sing  for  joy,  as  they  unchidden  glean 

Their  bosoms  full  my  harvest  sheaves  between ; 

And  not  unfrequent,  summoned  all  to  share 

My  humble  feast,  the  neighbours  shall  repair, 

The  lads  and  lasses  innocently  bold, 

Or,  more  sedate,  gray -beard  and  matron  old; 

For  them  the  fatted  calf  I'll  gladly  kill, 

For  them  the  cup  with  ruddy  pleasure  fill. 

This  is  thy  due,  my  God,  the  sacrifice 

Of  all  most  grateful  that  to  thee  may  rise ; 


PASTORAL.  115 

So  on  my  happy  heart  look  mildly  down. 

And  all  my  toil  with  moderate  plenty  crown. 

Let  me,  contented,  thus  remote  remain, 

Nor  make  long  journeys  for  uncertain  gain  : 

Shunning  the  summer  noon's  too  ardent  beam, 

Prone  in  the  shade  beside  some  murmuring  stream  ; 

Yet  ne'er  averse,  without  excessive  toil, 

To  break  for  tender  plants  the  stiffened  soil, 

Or  urge  the  slow-paced  oxen,  as  I  guide 

The  sharpened  share  with  all  a  ploughman's  pride. 

And  be  it  mine  with  shepherd's  love  to  bear 

The  bleating  wanderer  from  its  mother's  care 

Homeward  again,  and  hush  its  wild  alarms, 

In  the  safe  shelter  of  my  gentle  arms. 

So  He,  in  whom  I  trust,  will  guard  my  fold 

From  stealthy  wolf  or  human  robber  bold ; 

And  not  refuse  the  humble  boon  I  crave, 

My  loaded  vines  from  plundering  birds  to  save. 

Let  the  proud  noble  boast  his  wealthy  store, 

Enough  be  mine — I  would  not  ask  for  more ; 

So  that  at  eve  I  rest  my  weary  form 

On  the  dear  couch  bv  faithful  love  made  warm 


116  PASTORAL. 

Then,  though  without  are  winter  storms,  how  sweet 

To  list  the  rain  against  the  casement  beat, 

As,  clasping  fondly  to  my  happy  breast 

My  gentle  wife,  it  lulls  us  to  our  rest ! 

Well  do  they  earn  the  riches  they  attain 

Who  tempt,  for  commerce,  the  tempestuous  main ; 

Not  all  their  gold  or  jewels  would  I  buy 

With  one  sad  drop  from  Delia's  anxious  eye. 

Boast  thou,  Messala,  spoils  of  victory, 

Wrung  from  thy  foes,  or  on  the  land  or  sea ! 

Let  me  fair  Delia's  captive  blest  remain, 

Her  fair  fond  arms  my  ever-welcome  chain ; 

Nor  shall  I  care  though  I  inglorious  be, 

My  gentle  Delia,  in  thy  company. 

With  thee  still  let  me  live,  and  when  I  die, 

Thee  shall  I  bless  with  my  expiring  eye. 

Thou  by  my  couch  in  gentle  grief  shaft  stand, 

And  feel  the  last  faint  pressure  of  my  failing  hand. 

Then  wilt  thou  weep — thy  bitter  tears  shall  rain, 

While  I  unconscious  of  thy  tears  remain, 

Kissing  the  brow,  the  lips,  whose  icy  chill 

Answers  instead  of  love's  delicious  thrill. 


PASTORAL.  117 

Then  wilt  thou  weep,  when  following  to  the  grave 
Him  e'en  thy  fond  affection  could  not  save. 
Yet,  for  my  love,  and  for  love's  memory,  spare 
The  rippling  gold  of  thy  dishevelled  hair ; 
Nor  wound  upon  the  flints  thy  tender  knee — 
Their  beauty  spare,  dear,  e'en  in  death,  to  me ! 
And  not  a  village  swain  or  virgin  then 
Tearless  shall  to  their  home  return  again 
From  the  sad  scene,  but,  for  thy  sorrow's  sake, 
Will  for  thy  loss,  a  day  of  mourning  make. 
Thus  let  us  live  and  love  while  yet  we  may, 
(For  death  will  come  at  some  too  early  day,) 
And  give  to  each  our  fond,  confiding  truth, 
Till  age  shall  calm  the  transports  of  our  youth. 
With  my  snug  farm,  my  cottage  home,  and  thee, 
Riches  I  scorn,  and  smile  at  poverty. 


HORACE,    ODE    I.    3  8. 

Oh  !  how  I  hate,  boy,  hair  smelling  of  Macassar ! 
Throw  away  that  garland,  nor,  like  an  ass,  sir, 
Searching  for  thistles  'mid  the  meadow  grass,  sir, 

Seek  autumn's  roses ; 
Only  the  myrtle,  carelessly  entwining 
My  brow  and  yours,  boy,  serve  thy  master  dining 
Where  'neath  the  vine  leaves  in  the  sunset  shining, 

Blest  he  reposes. 


EPIGRAMS. 

TO    A    LADY    RICHLY     DRESSED. 
(From  the  Greek.     On  Venus  armed.) 

Ah  !  vain  enchantress,  wherefore  try 
With  toilet  arts  that  form  to  arm 

For  conquest  sweet,  that  men  may  die  ? 
Each  ornament  but  hides  a  charm. 

ON     A     PORTRAIT. 

(From  the  Latin.) 

The  mirth  is  laughing  in  thine  azure  eves, 

CJ  CD  «/  ' 

And  dimpling  o'er  thy  blushing  cheek ; 
Come,  let  me  share  the  glad  surprise, 
Open  those  rosy  lips,  and  speak. 

ON    A     COTTAGE. 
(From  the  Greek.) 

Go,  robber,  past,  and  seek  some  richer  store, 
Strong  poverty  defends  my  humble  door. 


ORIGINAL   EPIGRAMS. 


(After  the  Greek  manner.) 


MORTUiE. 


The  moss  has  hid  the  name  upon  the  stone, 

Which  guards  thine  ashes  in  their  sacred  sleep  ; 

Thou  art  forgotten,  but  by  one  alone, 

— That  name  within  my  heart  is  written  deep. 


ANOTHER. 


In  happy  hours,  when  we  in  rapture  vied, 

"  My  life  !"  "  My  soul !"  each  to  the  other  cried 

And  now,  since  Fate  has  torn  our  loves  apart, 
I  die  within  thy  tomb,  thou  livest  in  my  heart. 


ANOTHER. 


While  thou  wert  here,  the  wished  for  night  I  blest, 
When  by  thy  side  I  laid  me  down  to  rest; 


ORIGINAL   EPIGRAMS.  121 

More  welcome  far  the  shade  of  death  will  be, 
When  in  the  grave  I  sleep  again  with  thee. 


I  N  F  I  D  E  L  I. 

The  star  which  cheered  the  gloomy  night, 
Fades  in  the  glow  of  morning  light ; 
And,  now  that  fortune  gilds  thy  lot, 
My  faithful  love  is  all  forgot ! 


IN     IMAGINEM     PUELL5. 

'Tis  vain,  kind  artist!  this  was  like  her  when 
lone  sat  and  smiled  to  thee ;  but  then 
The  likeness  with  the  fleeting  moment  passed ; 
Each  hour  her  loveliness  transcends  the  last! 


ON    A    MALICIOUS    PERSON,    WHO    AFFECTS    HUMILITY. 

Call  him  not  meek,  the  sycophantic  thing ! 
'Tis  but  the  serpent's  art  to  creep  and  sting. 
11 


122  ORIGINAL   EPIGRAMS. 

(Religious.) 
INSCRIPTION     FOR     A     FOUNTAIN. 

Drink,  weary  pilgrim  !     If  athirst  thou  be, 
Know  that  the  stream  is  gushing  forth  for  thee ; 
Drink  for  Christ's  sake,  our  painful  way  who  trod; 
Man  gives  the  cup — the  living  water,  God. 


HEBREWS     IV.     9. 

O  rest  not  now,  but  scatter  wide  the  seeds 

Of  faithful  words,  and  yet  more  faithful  deeds ; 

So  thou  shalt  rest  above  eternally, 

When  God  the  harvest  fruit  shall  give  to  thee. 


HEBREWS     IV.     10. 

Thou  restedst  not,  O  God,  from  thine  employ 

Till  thou  beheldst  thy  finished  work  with  joy ; 

Nor  let  me  think  my  right  to  rest  is  won, 

Till  thou  shalt  view  my  work,  and  say:  "Well  done!" 


ORIGINAL   EPIGRAMS.  ] 23 


FH1LIPPIANS,    II.  12,   13. 


O  blessed  weakness,  when  Christ  is  our  strength  ! 

O  blessed  fear,  the  warrant  of  success  ! 
O  blessed  service,  which  secures  at  length, 

In  God's  good  pleasure,  our  own  happiness ! 


LUX  IN  TENEBRIS,  TENEBRiE  IN  LUCE. 

'Tis  not  the  sun,  but  Thou  that  gives  me  day ; 
Thy  sweet  compassion  makes  the  darkness  bright ; 
And,  if  Thou  turn'st  Thy  loving  smile  away, 
My  soul  at  noon  is  wrapped  in  deepest  night. 


SPECIMENS  OF  PSALMS  LITERALLY  VERSIFIED. 
PSALM    IX. 

I  will  praise  thee,  O  my  Lord,  with  my  whole  heart 

I'll  praise  thee, 
And  show  forth  all  thy  marvellous  works  right  loftily 

will  I ; 
I  will  rejoice  in  thee,  for  thy  love  doth  embrace  me ; 
I  will  sing  praises  to  thy  name,  O  God,  the  Lord  most 

high ! 

Mine  enemies  fly  fast,  they  fall,  O  Lord,  before  thee, 
Yea,  they  perish  all  before  the  glory  of  thy  might ; 
Thou  hast  maintained  my  cause,  therefore  do  I  adore 

thee, 
O  thou  that  sittest  on  thy  throne  for  ever  judging  right ! 


PSALM    IX.  125 

Thou  hast  rebuked  the  heathen  for  ever  and  for  ever, 
Their  very  name  hath  perished  quite  and  shamefully 

in  dust; 
— O  mine  enemy,  thy  rage  shall  vex  the  righteous  never, 
Upon  thy  grave  lie  those  proud  walls  which  once  thou 

mad'st  thy  trust. 

The   Lord  from   endless  years  to  endless  years  en- 

dureth, 
He   hath  prepared  for  judgment  high   his  throne  of 

mighty  power  ; 
His  truth  full  vengeance  on  th'  ungodly  soul  ensureth  ; 
His  people  shall  his  justice  save  in  that  tremendous 

hour. 

Thou  art  a  refuge  for  the  weak,  before  th'  oppressor 

flying, 
A  refuge  in  the  darkest  hour  thy  name,  O  Lord,  they 

make ; 
Who   know  thy  steadfast   truth,   and,  on   that  truth 

relying, 

Claim  thy  strong  help,  shall  surely  find  thou  never 

dost  forsake. 

11* 


126  PSALM  IX. 

O  sing  praises  to  the  Lord,  the  Lord  who  dwells  in 

Zion, 
Declare   among  the  people  there   the  doings  of  his 

might ! 
He  remembereth,  in  his  fiercest  wrath,  those  who  his 

word  rely  on ; 
He  forgetteth  not  the  lowly,  when  they  cry  in  sore 

affright. 

Have  mercy,  Lord,  upon  me,  consider  my  distresses, 
The  insulting  rage  of  enemies   my   very  soul  who 

hate  ; 
Deliver  me  even  now,  for  hard  the  foe  oppresses ; 
Thou  canst  lift  up  my  life  even  from  death's  lowest 

gate! 

Then    thy   praises   will    I    sing   to    Zion's    listening 

daughter, 
Exulting  in  thy  temple  high,   thy   saving  love   I'll 

sing; 
In  the  pit  they  digged  for  me  my  foes  lie  heaped  in 

slaughter, 
Their  cruel  souls  are  taken  in  their  own  imagining. 


PSALM  IX.  127 

By  his  judgment  is  Jehovah  known,  though  no  mortal 

eyes  behold  him ; 
The  wicked  perish  in  the  way  his  willing  feet  have 

trod  ; 
Yea,  the  wicked  shall  be  plunged  in  hell,  where  endless 

fires  enfold  him, 
With  all  the  nations  who  forget  their  Maker  and  their 

God. 

But  the  holy  poor,  who  patient  trust  in  humble  expec- 
tation, 

Shall  be  remembered,  Lord,  by  thee,  in  some  bright 
future  day ; 

Their  cry  wilt  thou  regard,  and  answer  with  salvation, 

Thy  mercy  seems  to  linger  now,  but  shall  not  sleep 
alway. 

Arise,  and  put  to  shame,  0  Lord,  the  heathen's  boastful 

story, 
That  they  may  win  the  victory  who  for  Jehovah  fight! 
Put  them  in  fear,  0  God,  with  their  effulgent  glory, 
That  men  may  own  themselves  but  dust,  and  kneel 

before  thy  might ! 


PSALM    XIX. 

The  heavens,  O  God,  declare  to  man  thy  glory, 
The  firmament  thy  wisdom's  holy  skill ; 

Day  following  day  proclaims  the  wondrous  story, 
Night  following  night  repeats  the  lesson  still. 

They  speak  a  language  known  to  every  nation ; 

Who  upward  looks,  shall  hear  their  voice  sublime ; 
The  deep,  hushed  music  of  their  adoration 

Full  on  the  soul  to  utmost  earth  doth  chime. 

There  is  the  Sun's  pavilion,  whence  arising, 
Like  a  proud  bridegroom  in  his  splendour  drest, 

And  with  glad  light  the  dewy  earth  surprising, 
A  giant  strong,  he  speeds  him  to  the  West. 


PSALM   XIX.  129 

His  going  forth  is  from  the  Orient  heaven, 
And  round  he  hies  again  to  reach  the  goal ; 

The  lowest  earth  feels  his  glad  heat  like  leaven, 
Working  mysterious  ends  from  pole  to  pole. 

So  perfect  is  thy  law,  O  God  most  holy, 
Converting  from  its  sin  the  erring  heart ; 

So  doth  thy  truth  shine  on  the  spirit  lowly, 
Making  her  blest  with  joy,  e'en  as  Thou  art. 

Pure  as  morn's  early  rays  on  eyes  awaking, 
So  beams  thy  word  upon  th'  awakening  mind ; 

And  God's  high  majesty,  no  stain  partaking 
With  mortal  thought,  eternal  is  enshrined. 

More  precious  now,  unto  my  soul's  desire, 
Than  gold,  yea,  finest  gold,  thy  counsels  are ; 

And,  when  my  thoughts  refreshing  cheer  require, 
Than  comb  distilling  honey  sweeter  far. 

They  are  my  safe  companions,  still  forewarning 
From  subtle  ill,  while  my  weak  steps  they  guard ; 

Thee  would  I  serve  each  day  from  early  morning, 
For  in  thy  statutes  is  a  great  reward. 


130  PSALM    XIX. 

Who  knows  his  every  sin?     From  faults  long  hidden, 
O  cleanse  thou  me !  and  from  presumptuous  pride, 

O  keep  me  back !  that,  when  the  vile  are  chidden, 
My  faithful  soul,  O  Lord,  thou  may'st  not  chide. 

Let  all  my  words  be  pure — my  meditation 
Be  grateful  to  thee,  when  I  lowly  bow, 

Giving  glad  homage  for  thv  full  salvation, 

My  Lord,  my  Strength,  and  my  Redeemer  thou. 


PSALM   XXIII. 

The  Lord  he  is  my  shepherd, 
No  want  I  e'er  shall  know ; 

In  greenest  mead  he  makes  me  feed, 
Where  the  calm  waters  flow. 

My  soul  his  love  restoreth, 
And  me  to  walk  doth  make 

(Lest  I  transgress)  in  righteousness, 
E'en  for  his  own  name's  sake. 

Yea,  in  death's  darkest  valley, 

I  shall  feel  no  dismay ; 
For  there  with  me  thou  still  shalt  be, 

Thy  rod  and  staff  my  stay. 


132  PSALM   XXIII. 

My  table  thou  preparest, 
In  presence  of  my  foes ; 

Upon  my  head,  thou  oil  dost  shed, 
And  my  cup  overflows. 

Thy  goodness  and  thy  mercy 
Shall  ever  follow  me ; 

And  when  I  die,  with  thee  on  high 
My  endless  home  shall  be. 


PSALM   CXXVI. 

When  Zion  from  captivity  Jehovah  did  redeem, 
The  joy  appeared  too  great  for  truth,  we  were  like 

those  who  dream ; 
Then  were  our  mouths  with  laughter  filled,  and  from 

each  grateful  tongue 
Glad  praises  to  Jehovah   there,  before  the  heathen, 

rung. 
"  The  Lord  hath  done  great  things  for  them  !"  with 

wonder  then  they  cried ; 
"  The  Lord  hath  done  great  things  for  us  !"  exulting 

we  replied. 
— Bring  home  thy  tribes  unto  their  land,  Lord,  like  the 

floods  that  pour 
Their  channels  full  from  southern  hills  when  summer's 

heats  are  o'er. 

12 


134  PSALM    CXX  VI. 

The  faithful  hearts  that  trust  thy  word,  though  they  in 

anguish  weep, 
Yet  shall  the  harvest  of  their  faith  in  happy  season 

reap  ; 
Yea,  doubtless,  shall  abounding  sheaves  their  constant 

bosoms  fill, 
Who  sow  in  tears  the  precious  seed,  obedient  to  thy 

will. 


PSALM    CXXXVIL 

By  Babel's  waters  we  sat  down,  a  weeping  company ; 
We  thought  of  Zion,  and  our  harps  hung  on  the  willow 

tree. 
Our  masters  there,  with  cruel  taunt,  required  of  us  a 

song: 
"One  of  the  songs,"  the  spoiler  cried,  "to  Zion  that 

belong." 
God  of  our  fathers !  how  can  we  find  either  voice  or 

hand 
For  Judah's  lofty  minstrelsy,  in  a  far  foreign  land  ? 
Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  !  if,  thus  forgetting  thee, 
I  wake  for  thine  insulting  foes  thy  sacred  melody, 
Oh !  may  my  hand  forget  its  skill  to  strike  the  tuneful 

string, 
My  palsied   tongue  with   horror   shrink,   though   all 

around  me  sing ! 


136  PSALM   CXXXVII. 

Jerusalem  !  Jerusalem  !  my  joy  all  joys  above, 
Thine  is  my  hand,  my  harp,  my  voice,  my  heart's  un- 
bounded love. 
— Jehovah  !  thou  wilt  not  forget,  how  in  that  dreadful 

day, 
The  raging  hosts  of  Edom  howled  like  wolves  above 

their  prey ; 
"  Rase,  rase  their  walls  unto  the  dust!" — Oh  God! 

requite  to  them 
The  ruin  of  our  heritage,  thine  own  Jerusalem  ! 
Yes,  Babylon !    the   day   shall   come,   proud   as  thy 

triumphs  shine 
Above   the   tribes   of  Israel   now,   our  ruin   will   be 

thine ; 
And  happy  he,  who  will  not  spare  thy  children  in  thy 

fall, 
But  dash  thy  last  remaining  babe  against  thy  prostrate 

wall! 


TRANSLATION. 

A  CHAUNT  OF  THE  EARLY  CHRISTIANS  AT  THE 
LIGHTING  OF  THE  EVENING  LAMP. 

Usher,  Diatr.  de  Symbglis,  p.  35. 

Light  of  the  immortal  Father's  glory, 

Joyous,  sacred,  heavenly,  blest, 
Jesus  Christ,  we  bow  before  thee, 

As  the  sunlight  leaves  the  west. 
We  give  thee  homage,  grateful,  lowly, 

That  the  evening  light  we  see, 
Father,  Son,  and  Spirit  Holy, 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy  Three. 

Worthy  art  Thou  worlds  unending, 

Son  of  God,  the  life  and  light, 
To  receive  a  praise  transcending 

All  created  worth  and  might ; 
12* 


138  TRANSLATION. 

Soon  the  star,  now  shining  o'er  us, 
All  the  earth  shall  joyful  see ; 

And  all  tongues  shall  swell  the  chorus 
Holy,  Holy,  Holy  Three. 


IF   I    ONLY   HAVE    THEE 

(FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    NOVALIS.) 

If  I  only  have  Thee, 
If  only  mine  thou  art, 
And  to  the  grave 
Thy  power  to  save 
Upholds  my  faithful  heart ; 
Naught  can  then  my  soul  annoy, 
Lost  in  worship,  love,  and  joy. 

If  I  only  have  Thee, 
I  gladly  all  forsake. 
To  follow  on 
Where  thou  hast  gone, 
My  pilgrim  staff  I  take ; 
Leaving  other  men  to  stray 
In  the  bright,  broad,  crowded  way. 


140  IF   I    ONLY   HAVE   THEE. 

If  I  only  have  Thee, 
If  only  Thou  art  near, 
In  sweet  repose 
My  eyes  shall  close, 
Nor  Death's  dark  shadow  fear ; 
And  thy  heart's  flood  through  my  breast, 
Gently  charm  my  soul  to  rest. 

If  I  only  have  Thee, 
All  the  world  is  mine ; 
Like  those  who  gaze 
Upon  the  rays 
That  from  thy  glory  shine, 
Rapt  in  holy  thought  of  Thee, 
Earth  can  have  no  gloom  for  me. 

Where  I  only  have  Thee 
Is  my  fatherland ; 
For  everywhere 
The  gifts  I  share 
From  thy  wide-spreading  hand  ; 
And  in  all  my  human  kind, 
Long-lost  brothers  dear  I  find. 


IT    IS    NOT    DEATH    TO    DIE. 

(FROM     THE     FRENCH.) 

It  is  not  death  to  die, 

To  leave  this  weary  road, 
And,  midst  the  brotherhood  on  high, 

To  be  at  home  with  God. 

It  is  not  death  to  close 

The  eye  long  dimmed  by  tears, 
And  wake  in  glorious  repose, 

To  spend  eternal  years. 

It  is  not  death  to  bear 

The  wrench  that  sets  us  free 

From  dungeon-chain,  to  breathe  the  air 
Of  boundless  liberty. 


142  IT   IS   NOT   DEATH   TO    DIE. 

It  is  not  death  to  fling 

Aside  this  sinful  dust, 
And  rise  on  strong,  exulting  wing, 

To  live  among  the  just. 

Jesus,  thou  Prince  of  Life, 
Thy  chosen  cannot  die  ! 

Like  Thee,  they  conquer  in  the  strife, 
To  reign  with  Thee  on  high. 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

FOR     SUNDAY    SCHOOL    CHILDREN. 

The  Almighty  Spirit  to  a  poor  and  humble  Virgin 

came, 
With  promise  that  her  child  should  bear  Immanuel's 

mystic  name ; 
And  the  blessed  mother,  full  of  joy,  bowed  down  her 

pious  head : 
"  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord,  and  do  as  thou 

hast  said." 

Saviour,  by  thy  Spirit  Holy, 
Make  us  like  her,  meek  and  lowly  ! 

The  hour  of  grace  was  fully  come,  and  humble  shep- 
herds lay 

On  Bethlehem's  plains,  with  pious  talk,  watching  until 
the  day  ; 


144  CHRISTMAS    HYMN. 

When  heavenly  glory  shone  around,  far  brighter  than 

the  morn, 
And  radiant  angels  sang :  "  To  you  the  Saviour  Lord 
is  born !" 

Saviour,  by  thy  Spirit  Holy, 

Make  us  like  them,  meek  and  lowly ! 


Within  a  manger's  humble  bed,  the  Lord  of  Glory 

slept, 
And  the  humble  mother's  yearning  heart  blest  vigil 

o'er  him  kept ; 
And  humble  shepherds  knelt  around,  with  wondering 

faith,  to  see 
Upon  an  infant's  feeble  brow  enstamped  Divinity. 
Saviour,  by  thy  Spirit  Holy, 
Make  us  like  Thee,  meek  and  lowly ! 


In  all  thy  riper  years,  O  Christ !  though  armed  with 

power  Divine, 
The  gentle  meekness  of  the  poor  and  humble  heart 

was  thine ; 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN.  145 

And  now,  upon  thy  lofty  throne,  so  smiles  thy  mercy 

mild, 
That  saints  and  angels  worship  thee,  as  God's  most 
Holy  Child.* 

Saviour,  by  thy  Spirit  Holy, 

Keep  us  like  Thee,  meek  and  lowly. 

*  Acts  iv.  22. 


13 


ANOTHER. 

Joy  and  gladness  !  joy  and  gladness  ! 

Oh  !  happy  day  ! 
Ev'ry  thought  of  sin  and  sadness 

Chase,  chase  away. 
Heard  ye  not  the  angels  telling, 
Christ  the  Lord  of  might  excelling, 
On  the  earth  with  man  is  dwelling 


&j 


Clad  in  our  clay  1 


With  the  shepherd-throng  around  him 

Haste  we  to  bow  ; 
By  the  angel's  sign  they  found  him, 

We  know  him  now; 
New-born  babe  of  houseless  stranger, 
Cradled  low  in  Bethlehem's  manger, 
Saviour  from  our  sin  and  danger, 
Jesus,  'tis  thou ! 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN.  }47 

God  of  life,  in  mortal  weakness, 

Hail,  Virgin-born ! 
Infinite  in  lowly  meekness, 

Thou  wilt  not  scorn, 
Though  all  Heaven  is  singing  o'er  thee, 
And  gray  wisdom  bows  before  thee, 
When  our  youthful  hearts  adore  thee, 
This  holy  morn. 

Son  of  Mary,  (blessed  mother !) 

Thy  love  we  claim ; 

Son  of  God,  our  elder  brother, 

(O  gentle  name !) 

To  thy  Father's  throne  ascended, 

With  thine  own  His  glory  blended, 

Thou  art,  all  thy  trials  ended, 

Ever  the  same. 

Thou  wert  born  to  tears  and  sorrows, 

Pilgrim  divine ; 
Watchful  nights  and  weary  morrows, 

Brother,  were  thine : 


148  CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

By  thy  fight  with  strong  temptation, 

By  thy  cup  of  tribulation, 

Oh  !  thou  God  of  our  salvation, 

With  mercy  shine ! 

In  thy  holy  footsteps  treading 

Guide,  lest  we  stray  ; 

From  thy  word  of  promise  shedding 
Light  on  our  way  ; 

Never  leave  us  nor  forsake  us, 

Like  thyself  in  mercy  make  us, 

And  at  last  to  glory  take  us, 

Jesus,  we  pray. 


ANOTHER. 

Full  many  a  year  has  sped, 
Since,  round  his  cradle-bed, 

The  shepherd-throng 
Hailed,  Lord,  the  Child  Divine, 
Blessed  Mary's  Son  and  Thine, 
Led  by  the  starry  sign 

An;.angel's  song. 

No  heavenly  song  we  hear, 
Nor  wondrous  signs  appear, 

This  holy  morn; 
But  in  our  faith  we  see, 
Jesus-Jehovah,  thee, 
On  thy  sweet  mother's  knee, 

A  babe  new-born. 
13* 


150  CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

And  in  thy  book  of  truth, 
Through  infancy  and  youth, 

We  trace  thy  way. 
Well  may  thy  praise  be  sung, 
By  every  youthful  tongue, 
O  Saviour  of  the  young, 

On  this  glad  day  ! 

Sad  was  thy  gentle  life, 
Strong  was  thy  constant  strife, 

Our  souls  to  save; 
By  all  our  sins  distrest, 
Nor  home  hadst  thou,  nor  rest, 
E'en  from  thy  mother's  breast 

To  the  dark  grave. 

O,  by  the  faithful  love 

That  brought  thee  from  above, 

Our  paths  to  tread, 
Guide  thou  our  simple  youth 
In  ways  of  perfect  truth, 
And  from  thy  promise  sooth 

Rich  comfort  shed. 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN.  151 

O,  by  thy  death  of  shame, 
And  thy  triumphant  name 

Of  boundless  power, 
So  may  we  die  to  sin, 
And  a  new  life  within 
Heaven's  own  bright  day  begin, 

From  this  good  hour. 

Hosanna  to  our  King  ! 
Hosanna  high  we  sing, 

Hail,  hail,  O  Christ ! 
To  Him,  who  in  the  name 
Of  God-Jehovah  came, 
Let  every  heart  proclaim  : 

Hosanna  highest ! 


ANOTHER. 

We  come,  we  come,  with  loud  acclaim, 
To  sing  the  praise  of  Jesus'  name ; 
And  make  the  vaulted  temple  ring 
With  loud  hosannahs  to  our  King. 
With  thrilling  pulse  and  smiling  face, 
We  gather  round  the  throne  of  grace 
And  lowly  bend  to  offer  there, 
From  infant  lips,  our  Christmas  prayer, 
To  Him  who  slept  on  Mary's  knee, 
A  gentle  child,  as  young  as  we. 

We  come,  we  come,  the  song  to  swell, 
To  Him  who  loved  our  world  so  well, 
That,  stooping  from  his  Father's  throne, 
He  died,  to  claim  it  as  his  own. 


CHRISTMAS    HYMN.  I53 

And  now  the  holy  aisles  we  fill, 

Yet  youthful  bands  are  gathering  still ; 

O,  thus  may  we  in  heaven  above, 

Unite  in  praises  and  in  love ; 

While  happy  angels  fill  their  home 

With  joyful  cry  :  "  They  come,  they  come  !" 


HYMN 

FOR    THE    OPENING    OF    THE    ORPHAN    ASYLUM    CHAPEL, 
BLOOMINGDALE,    NEW    YORK. 

BY    THE    CONGREGATION. 

Thine  ancient  temple,  Lord,  is  dust ; 

But  Thou  hast  sworn  to  be 
Wherever  meet,  in  pious  trust, 

True  hearts  to  worship  thee ; 

And  we,  the  orphan's  home  to  bless, 

In  lowly  faith  draw  near ; 
Come,  Father  of  the  fatherless, 

And  make  thy  dwelling  here. 

At  op'ning  morn,  and  closing  eve, 
And  Sabbath's  holy  time, 


HYMN.  155 

Do  thou  the  grateful  praise  receive, 
Their  artless  voices  chime. 

And  may  thy  lamp  of  love,  whose  light 

Shone  on  young  Samuel's  bed, 
Throughout  this  house  each  silent  night 

Its  tranquil  blessing  shed. 

BY   THE    CHILDREN. 

Here  may  we  listen  to  the  call 

Thine  infant  prophet  heard, 
Till  every  heart  is  thine,  and  all 

Delight  to  know  thy  word. 

And  never  may  our  hearts  forget, 

Though  far  our  feet  may  roam, 
The  God  around  whose  shrine  we  met, 

Within  our  Orphan  Home. 

Till  all  who  learn  hosannahs  here, 

To  Christ  the  Saviour's  love, 
Shall  in  our  Father's  house  appear, 

And  sing  his  praise  above. 


HYMN    FOR   EASTER. 

'Tis  He !  'tis  He  !  I  know  him  now, 
By  the  red  scars  upon  his  brow, 
His  wounded  hands,  and  feet,  and  side, 
My  Lord  !  my  God  !  the  Crucified ! 

Those  hands  have  rolled  the  stone  away ; 
Those  feet  have  trod  the  path  to-day ; 
And  round  that  brow  triumphant  shine 
The  rays  of  majesty  divine. 

O,  from  those  hands  uplifted,  shed 
Thy  blessing  on  my  fainting  head; 
And,  as  I  clasp  those  feet,  impart 
The  love  that  gushed  from  out  thy  heart ! 


HYMN    FOR    EASTER.  157 

Thy  death  upon  the  cross  be  mine, 
My  life  from  mortal  sin,  be  thine, 
And  mine  the  way  thy  feet  have  trod, 
To  reign  in  heaven  with  thee,  my  God. 


14 


PRAYER  FOR  THE   SPIRIT. 

O  for  the  happy  hour 

When  God  will  hear  our  cry, 

And  send,  with  a  reviving  power, 
His  Spirit  from  on  high  ! 

We  meet,  we  sing,  we  pray, 

We  listen  to  the  Word, 
In  vain — we  see  no  cheering  ray, 

No  cheering  voice  is  heard. 

Our  prayers  are  faint  and  dull, 

And  languid  all  our  songs, 
Where  once  with  joy  our  hearts  were  full, 

And  rapture  tuned  our  tongues. 


PRAYER   FOR  THE   SPIRIT.  159 

While  many  crowd  thy  house, 

How  few  around  thy  board 
Meet  to  record  their  solemn  vows, 

And  bless  thee  as  their  Lord. 

Thou,  Thou  alone  canst  give 

Thy  Gospel  sure  success, 
And  bid  the  dying  sinner  live 

Anew  in  holiness. 

Come,  with  thy  power  divine, 

Spirit  of  life  and  love ; 
Then  shall  our  people  all  be  thine, 

Our  church  like  that  above. 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN    SICKNESS. 

11  Assument  pennas  sicut  aquilae." 

Why,  trembling  soul !  such  strange  affright 
To  quit  a  toil-worn  frame  like  this ; 

Nor  joy  to  stretch  thy  wings  of  light, 
And  seek  a  higher  realm  of  bliss  ? 

Wrhy  thus  imprisoned  love  to  dwell 

Where  darkness  shrouds  thy  longing  eye, 

When  all  beyond  the  narrow  cell 
Is  light  and  hope  and  liberty  ? 

How  oft  thy  cry  :  O  for  the  hour 

When  some  strong  hand  would  set  me  free ! 
— Lo,  thy  Deliverer  !  who  hath  power 

O'er  death  and  thy  captivity. 


LINES  WRITTENIN    SICKNESS.  \Qi 

0  heed  not  then  the  sick'ning  pain, 

Nor  faint,  though  sight  and  sense  grow  dim  ; 
'Tis  but  the  wrench  that  breaks  thy  chain 
From  fettered  wing  and  weary  limb. 

1  feel  thee  now,  my  rising  soul, 

Like  early  lark  I  singing  soar, 
And,  free  from  every  base  control, 
I  stoop  to  earth  and  sin  no  more. 


14* 


A    PRAYER. 

1     CORINTHIANS,     XIII. 

Father,  on  my  bended  knee, 

Hear  me  ask  a  boon  from  thee : 

Give  me,  if  thou  wilt,  the  charm 
Of  eloquence,  thy  truth  to  arm, 
That  the  sinful  soul  may  tremble, 
And  the  vile  no  more  dissemble ; 
Touch  my  lips  with  sacred  fire, 
Such  as  kindles  Heaven's  choir 
When  Cherubim  and  Seraphim 
Swell  with  saints  th'  immortal  hymn ; 
Give  me  strong  prophetic  sight 
To  read  all  thy  mysteries  right ; 
Faith  to  make  the  mountain  yield 
Easy  path  as  meadow  field  ; 


A   P  R  A  YER.  163 

— Grant  me,  if  Thou  wilt,  all  these, 
Yet  not  all  my  heart  can  ease, 
If  Thou  dost  not  grant  to  me 
Gentle,  lowly  Charity  ; 
Without  this,  they  all  shall  tell 
Like  tinkling  cymbal,  empty  bell. 

Had  I  riches,  and  a  heart 
All  in  mercy  to  impart ; 
Courage  strong  to  yield  my  breath 
In  a  martyr's  fiery  death ; 
Little  would  they  profit  me 
Without  gentle  Charity. 
Charity  that  beareth  long, 
Though  I  suffer  cruel  wrong ; 
To  the  erring  always  kind ; 
To  my  own  wrorth  always  blind  ; 
Glad  of  others'  happy  lot, 
In  his  profit  mine  forgot ; 
Vaunting  not  superior  good, 
Never  proud,  nor  harsh,  nor  rude ; 
Yielding,  rather  far  than  fight, 
Ev'n  my  due  with  meek  delight; 


164  A   PRAYER. 

Slowly  stirred  to  words  of  blame, 
Slowly  seeing  others'  shame ; 
'Neath  my  trials  never  grieving  ; 
All  a  brother's  praise  believing ; 
Ever  hoping  for  the  best, 
And  enduring  all  the  rest ; 
— This  is  what  I  ask  from  Thee, 
Gentle,  lowly  Charity. 

Little  now  at  best  we  know, 
Though  with  prophet's  fire  we  glow ; 
But  when  Thou  shalt  radiant  come, 
And  reveal  the  mighty  sum, 
We  shall  in  the  glory  see 
Only  gentle  Charity. 

When  I  was  a  little  child, 
Foolish  were  my  words  and  wild ; 
Feebly  learned  I  what  was  taught, 
Feebly  then  of  wisdom  thought ; 
Now,  Lord,  let  my  manhood  be 
Strong  in  gentle  Charity. 


A    PRAYER.  ](55 

Dim,  as  through  a  shadowed  glass, 
Now  we  watch  thy  glories  pass ; 
But  when,  in  thy  close  embrace, 
Thou  shalt  clasp  me  face  to  face, 
I  shall  all  thy  greatness  see, 
As  Thou  now  dost  look  on  me. 

Still  within  my  heart  shall  rest, 
Each  a  welcome,  cheerful  guest, 
Sent  to  bless  me  from  above, 
Faith,  and  Hope,  and  holy  Love ; 
But  the  chiefest  place  shall  be, 
Thine,  sweet,  gentle  Charity ! 


ALONE,   YET   NOT   ALONE." 

JOHN    XVI.     3  2. 

The  desert  flower  afar  may  bloom, 
Where  foot  of  man  ne'er  trod  ; 

Yet  gratefully  its  soft  perfume 
Ascendeth  up  to  God ; 

And  He  will  own  the  offering  too, 

And  fill  its  cup  with  living  dew. 

Alone  may  sing  the  forest-bird, 

Afar  from  human  ear, 
Yet  there  he  singeth  not  unheard, 

For  God  is  listening  near ; 
And  He  will  cheer  the  warbler's  breast 
With  pleasant  food  and  quiet  rest. 


"ALONE,   YET    NOT    ALONE."  [Qj 

Thus,  when  before  His  gracious  throne, 

With  grateful  praise  I  bend, 
I  feel  I  am  not  all  alone, 

For  God  is  still  my  friend ; 
And  humble  though  my  love  may  be, 
He  answereth  it  with  love  to  me. 

Each  morn  will  bring  a  promise  pure 

As  dew  to  desert  flower, 
Each  eve  a  rest  as  calm  and  sure 

As  birds  in  forest  bower ; 
Till  death  shall  free  my  earth-bound  wing, 
And  bear  me  heavenward  as  I  sing. 


SAILOR'S   HYMN. 

Tossed  upon  life's  raging  billow, 

Sweet  it  is,  O  Lord,  to  know 
Thou  hast  pressed  a  sailor's  pillow, 

And  canst  feel  a  sailor's  wo, 
Never  slumbering,  never  sleeping, 

Though  the  night  be  dark  and  drear, 
Thou  the  faithful  watch  art  keeping — 

"  All,  all's  well !"  thy  constant  cheer. 

And,  though  loud  the  wind  is  howling, 

Fierce  though  flash  the  lightnings  red, 
Darkly  though  the  storm-clouds  scowling 

O'er  the  sailor's  anxious  head, 
Thou  canst  calm  the  raging  ocean, 

All  its  noise  and  tumult  still, 
Hush  the  billow's  wild  commotion, 

At  the  bidding  of  thy  will. 


SAILOR'S   HYMN.  169 

Thus  my  heart  the  hope  will  cherish, 

While  to  Heav'n  I  lift  mine  eye, 
Thou  wilt  save  me  ere  I  perish, 

Thou  wilt  hear  me  when  I  cry ; 
And,  though  mast  and  sail  be  riven, 

Life's  short  voyage  will  soon  be  o'er ; 
Safely  moored  in  Heav'n's  wide  haven, 

Storms  and  tempests  vex  no  more. 


15 


THE   DEPARTING   MISSIONARY. 

Farewell  to  thee,  brother !     We  meet  but  to  part, 
And  sorrow  is  struggling  with  joy  in  each  heart; 
There  is  grief — but  there's  hope,  all  its  anguish  to  quell ; 
The  Master  goes  with  thee — Farewell !  oh,  farewell ! 

Farewell !     Thou  art  leaving  the  home  of  thy  youth, 
The  friends  of  thy  God,  and  the  temples  of  truth, 
For  the  land  where  is  heard  no  sweet  Sabbath  bell ; 
Yet  the  Master  goes  with  thee — Farewell !  oh,  farewell ! 

Farewell !  for  thou  treadest  the  path  that  He  trod  ; 
His  God  is  thy  Father,  His  Father  thy  God ; 
And  if  ever  with  doubtings  thy  bosom  shall  swell, 
Remember  He's  with  thee — Farewell !  oh,  farewell ! 


MISSI  O  NARY   HYMN.  ]71 

Farewell  !  and  God  speed  thee,  glad  tidings  to  bear, 
To  the  desolate  isles  in  their  night  of  despair ; 
On  the  sea,  on  the  shore,  all  the  promises  tell, 
His  wings  shall  enfold  thee.     Farewell !  oh,  farewell ! 

Farewell !  but  in  spirit  we  often  shall  meet 
(Though  the  ocean  divide  us)  at  one  mercy-seat ; 
And  above,  ne'er  to  part,  but  for  ever  to  dwell 
With  the  Master  in  glory — Till  then,  oh  !  farewell ! 


THE   JOY    OF   ANGELS. 

There's  joy  before  the  face  of  God, 
While,  from  th'  eternal  throne, 

Unwonted  rapture  streams  abroad, 
And  o'er  all  heaven  hath  shone. 

The  seraphim  to  cherubim, 

With  glad  responses  call, 
And  loud  rejoice,  with  harp  and  hymn, 

Angel,  archangel,  all. 

And  loftily  the  choral  strain 

Swells  through  the  skies  around  : 

"  A  soul  once  dead  now  lives  again  ! 
A  sinner  lost  is  found  !" 

Not  such  their  joy,  when  o'er  the  birth 
Of  glorious  worlds  they  sung ; 


THE  JOY    OF    ANGELS.  173 

Or  when  the  Almighty  rolled  the  earth 
The  tuneful  spheres  among. 

Not  thus  they  hailed  the  starry  sign, 

When  Bethlehem's  lowly  King 
Did  round  his  majesty  divine 

Man's  humble  nature  fling. 

Before  Jehovah's  burning  breath, 

Those  orbs  shall  pass  away  ; 
And  Jesus  stooped  to  shame  and  death, 

When  He  assumed  our  clay. 

But  while  eternity  shall  roll 

Its  ceaseless  years  for  aye, 
Shall  shine  that  new-created  soul, 

With  ever-waxing  ray ; 

And  Jesus  to  his  blood-bought  throne 

Shall  lift  his  chosen  high, 
Radiant  in  glory  all  his  own, 

The  jewels  of  the  sky. 
15* 


"MY  MEAT  IS  TO  DO  THE  WILL   OF 
HIM  THAT  SENT  ME." 


JOHN     I  V.    3  4. 


Upon  the  well  by  Sychar's  gate, 
At  burning  noon,  the  Saviour  sate, 
Athirst  and  hungry,  from  the  way 
His  feet  had  trod  since  early  day ; 
The  Twelve  had  gone  to  seek  for  food, 
And  left  him  in  his  solitude. 

They  come  and  spread  before  him  there, 
With  faithful  haste,  the  pilgrim  fare, 
And  gently  bid  him  :  "  Master,  eat !" 
But  God  had  sent  him  better  meat, 
And  there  is  on  his  gentle  brow, 
Nor  weariness  nor  faintness  now. 


MY    MEAT.  175 

For  while  they  sought  the  market-place, 
His  words  had  won  a  soul  to  grace ; 
And  when  He  set  that  sinner  free 
From  bonds  of  guilt  and  infamy, 
His  heart  grew  strong  with  joy  divine, 
More  than  the  strength  of  bread  and  wine. 

So,  Christian,  when  thy  faith  is  faint, 
Amidst  the  toils  that  throng  the  saint, 
Ask  God  that  thou  may'st  peace  impart 
Unto  some  other  human  heart; 
And  thou  thy  Master's  joy  shalt  share, 
E'en  while  His  cross  thy  shoulders  bear. 


CHRIST   WASHING  THE  DISCIPLES' 

FEET. 


JOHN    XIII.    1-15. 


O  !  blessed  Jesus !  when  I  see  thee  bending, 
Girt  as  a  servant,  at  thy  servants'  feet, 

Love,  lowliness,  and  might,  in  zeal  all  blending, 
To  wash  their  dust  away,  and  make  them  meet 

To  share  thy  feast,  I  know  not  t'  adore, 

Whether  thy  humbleness  or  glory  more. 

Conscious  thou  art  of  that  dread  hour  impending, 
When  thou  must  hang  in  anguish  on  the  tree ; 

Yet,  as  from  the  beginning,  to  the  ending 
Of  thy  sad  life,  thine  own  are  dear  to  thee, — 

And  thou  wilt  prove  to  them,  ere  thou  dost  part, 

Th'  untold  love  which  fills  thy  faithful  heart. 


CHRIST   WASHING  THE   DISCIPLES'    FEET.      177 

The  day  too  is  at  hand,  when,  far  ascending, 
Thy  human  brow  the  crown  of  God  shall  wear, 

Ten  thousand  saints  and  radiant  ones  attending, 
To  do  thy  will  and  bow  in  homage  there ; 

But  thou  dost  pledge,  to  guard  thy  church  from  ill, 

Or  bless  with  good,  thyself  a  servant  still. 

Meek  Jesus  !  to  my  soul  thy  spirit  lending, 
Teach  me  to  live,  like  thee,  in  lowly  love ; 

With  humblest  service  all  thy  saints  befriending, 
Until  I  serve  before  thy  throne  above — 

Yes  !  serving  e'en  my  foes,  for  thou  didst  seek 

The  feet  of  Judas,  in  thy  service  meek. 

Daily  my  pilgrim  feet,  as  homeward  wending 
My  weary  way,  are  sadly  stained  with  sin ; 

Daily  do  thou,  thy  precious  grace  expending, 
Wash  me  all  clean  without  and  clean  within, 

And  make  me  fit  to  have  a  part  with  thee 

And  thine,  at  last,  in  heaven's  festivity. 

O  blessed  name  of  Servant  !  comprehending 
Man's  highest  honour  in  his  humblest  name ; 


178     CHRIST    WASHING   THE    DISCIPLES'    FEET. 

For  thou,  God's  Christ,  that  office  recommending, 
The  throne  of  mighty  power  didst  truly  claim ; 
He  who  would  rise  like  Thee,  like  Thee  must  owe 
His  glory  only  to  his  stooping  low. 


LUTHER. 

O  !  that  the  soul  of  Luther 

Were  on  the  earth  again ! 
The  mighty  soul,  whose  mightier  faith 

Burst  ancient  error's  chain  ; 

And  flashed  the  rays  of  God's  own  word 
Through  superstition's  night, 

Till  the  church  of  God,  that  sleeping  lay, 
Awoke  in  Christ's  own  light ! 

For  there  are  banded  traitors  strong, 
Who  fain  would  round  us  cast 

The  fetters  that  our  fathers  wore, 
In  those  dark  ages  past. 


180  LUTHER. 

"  The  church  !  the  church !"  they  loudly  boast ; 

"  The  cross !  the  cross !"  they  cry ; 
But  'tis  not  God's  pure  church  they  love, 

Nor  the  Cross  of  Calvary ! 

They  would  knot  again  the  painful  scourge, 

And  fire  the  martyr's  pile ; 
And  the  simple  poor  of  God's  free  grace, 

With  mystic  words,  beguile. 

They  would  tear  the  Bible  from  our  hearts, 

And  bid  us  blindly  turn 
From  the  holy  page,  and  the  Spirit's  power, 

At  the  feet  of  men  to  learn. 

They  darken  e'en  the  house  of  prayer 

With  Gothic  shadows  dim, 
Lest  the  Sun  of  truth  and  righteousness 

Should  shine  on  us  from  Him. 

They  open  lying  legends  old, 
And  claim  their  right  to  rule, 


LUTHER.  181 

Through  lines  of  tyrant-prelates  long, 
From  the  meek  Apostles'  school. 

They  stand  between  us  and  our  God, 

In  their  robes  of  bigot  pride, 
And  swear  that  none,  wTho  serve  not  them, 

Shall  serve  the  Crucified. 

O  !  that  the  soul  of  Luther 

Were  on  the  earth  once  more ; 
And  his  mighty  faith  in  the  words  of  truth, 

Those  floods  of  light  to  pour ! 

For  the  church  his  holy  zeal  once  led 

From  worse  than  Egypt  free, 
Is  wandering  from  The  Glory  back 

To  foul  captivity ! 


16 


SABBATH    EVENING. 

"  Te  veniente  die — Te  decedente  require" 

Sweet  was  the  Sabbath  morn ;  the  light 

Shone  out  with  purer  rays, 
Than  ever  chase  the  lingering  night 

From  sin's  most  pompous  days. 

Sweet  was  our  waking  thought, — that  He, 

Who  Eden's  Sabbath  blest, 
Gave  to  our  souls  this  day,  that  we 

Might  enter  to  his  rest. 

Sweet  was  the  voice  of  Sabbath  bell, 
Clear-ringing  through  the  air, 

When  on  our  waiting  ears  it  fell, 
A  call  to  praise  and  prayer. 


SABBATH   EVENING.  193 

Sweet  was  the  slow,  yet  cheerful  w^alk 

With  Christian  company, 
Who  loved  of  Jesus'  grace  to  talk, 

And  longed  his  power  to  see. 

In  God's  own  house,  how  passing  sweet 
Where  God's  own  praise  is  heard, 

And  saints  are  bowing  at  his  feet 
To  hear  his  holy  word ! 

But  now  hath  set  the  Sabbath  sun, 

And  fallen  the  evening  shade ; 
The  pleasant  work  is  well  nigh  done, 

The  Sabbath  pleasant  made. 

Yet  sweetly,  midst  the  holy  calm, 

The  memory  of  delight 
Sheds  on  the  soul  a  blessed  balm, 

Like  fragrant  dews  by  night. 

The  echo  of  the  praise  is  still 
Ling' ring  upon  the  ear ; 


184  SABBATH    EVENING. 

And  through  our  weekly  journey  will 
Our  pilgrim  spirits  cheer. 

O  when  shall  that  fair  morning  break, 
Whose  light  will  ne'er  grow  dim ; 

And  the  whole  Church  in  glory  wake 
The  everlasting  hymn  ? 


THE   END. 


LINDSAY  &   BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH  THE 

BRITISH    FEMALE    POETS: 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 
GEO.    W.    BETHUNE. 

AN    ELEGANT  VOLUME,   WITH    A   HANDSOME    VIGNETTE    TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  HON.  MRS,  NORTON. 

The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 

the  writings  of 

Anne  Boleyn,  Countess  of  Arundel,  Q,ueen  Elizabeth,  Duchess  of 

Newcastle,  Elizabeth  Carter,  Mrs.  Tighe,   Miss  Hannah  More, 

Mrs.  Hemans.  Lady  Flora  Hastings,   Mrs.   Amelia   Opie,    Miss 

Eliza  Cook,  Mrs.  S  out  hey,  Miss  Lowe,  Mrs.  Norton,  Elizabeth 

B.  Barrett,  Catharine  Parr,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Countess 

of  Pembroke,  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague,  Mrs.  Gre- 

ville,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  Joanna  Baillie,  Letitia  Elizabeth 

Landon,  Charlotte  Elizabeth,   Mary  Russell  Mitford, 

Mrs.  Coleridge,  Mary  Howitt,  Frances  Kemble  Butler, 

&c.  &c.  &c» 

The  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  of 

the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  typography, 

and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 
In  the  department  of  English  poetry,  we  have  long  looked  for  a  spirit  cast  in  nature's  finest,  yet 
most  elevated  mould,  possessed  of  the  most  delicate  and  exquisite  taste,  the  keenest  perception 
of  the  innate  true  and  beautiful  in  poetry,  as  opposed  to  their  opposites,  who  could  give  to  us  a 
pure  collection  of  the  British  Female  Poets  ;  many  of  them  among  the  choicest  spirits  that  ever 
graced  and  adorned  humanity.  The  object  of  our  search,  in  this  distinct  and  important  mission, 
is  before  us;  and  we  acknowledge  at  once  in  Dr.  Bethune.  the  gifted  poet,  the  eloquent  divine, 
and  the  humble  Christian,  one  who  combines,  in  an  eminent  degree,  all  the  characteristics  above 
alluded  to.  It  raises  the  mind  loftier,  and  makes  it  purified  with" the  soul,  to  float  in  an  atmosphere 
of  spiritual  purity,  to  peruse  the  elegant  volume  before  us,  chaste,  rich,  and  beautiful,  without  and 
within.— The  Spectator. 


We  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  any  previous  attempt  to  form  a  poetical  bouquet  exclusively 
from  gardens  planted  by  female  hands,  and  made  fragrant  and  beautiful  by  woman's  gentle  culture. 
We  know  few  men  equally  qualified  with  the  gifted  Editor  of  this  volume  for  the  tasteful  and 
judicious  selection  and  adjustment  of  the  various  flowers  that  are  to  delight  with  their  sweetness, 
soothe  with  their  softness,  and  impart  profit  with  their  sentiment.  The  volume  is  enriched  with 
Biographical  Sketches  of  some  sixty  poetesses,  each  sketch  being  followed  with  specimens  charac- 
teristic of  her  style  and  powers  of  verse.  In  beauty  of  typographv,  and  general  getting  up,  this 
volume  is  quite  equal  to  the  best  issues  of  its  tasteful  and  enterprising  publishers. — Episcopal  Recorder. 


Tt  is  handsomely  embellished,  and  may  be  described  as  a  casket  of  gems.  Dr.  Bethune,  who  is 
himself  a  poet  of  no  mean  genius,  has  in  this  volume  exhibited  the  most  refined  taste.  The  work 
may  be  regarded  as  a  treasury  of  nearly  all  the  best  pieces  of  British  Female  Poets. — Inquirer. 

This  volume,  which  is  far  more  suited  for  a  holyday  gift  than  many  which  are  prepared  expressly 
for  the  purpose,  contains  extracts  from  ail  the  most  distinguished  English  Female  Poets,  selected 
with  the  taste  and  judgment  which  we  have  a  right  to  expect  from  the  eminent  divine  and  highly 
gifted  poet  whose  name  adorns  the  title  page.  It  is  a  rare  collection  of  the  richest  gems.—  Balti- 
more American. 


Dr.  Bethune  has  selected  his  materials  with  exquisite  taste,  culling  the  fairest  and  sweetest 
flowers  from  the  extensive  field  cultivated  by  the  British  Female  Poets.  The  brief  Biographical 
Notices  add  much  interest  to  the  volume,  and  vastly  increase  iis  value.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  hard- 
working and  close-thinking  divines  thus  recreating  themselves,  and  contributing  by  their  recrea- 
tions to  the  refinement  of  the  age.  Dr.  Bethune  has  brought  to  his  task  poetic  enthusiasm,  and  a 
ready  perception  of  the  pure  and  beautiful.— ./V.  Y.  Commercial. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTONS  PUBLICATIONS. 


A  BOOK  FOR  EVERY  CHRISTIAN, 


THE    SECOND   EDITION. 


MEMOIR  OF  MISS  MARGARET  MERCER. 

BY  CASPAR  MORRIS,  M.  D. 

A  neat  18mo.  volume,  with  a  beautiful  Engraved 
PORTRAIT  OF   MISS   MERCER, 

OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 
Miss  Mercer  was  a  daughter  of  the  late  Governor  Mercer,  of  Maryland.  Her  father, 
who  was  a  Virginian,  and  the  descendant  of  a  distinguished  family,  removed  to  Straw- 
verry  Hill,  near  Annapolis,  Md.,  soon  after  his  marriage.  In  the  memoir  of  the  daughter, 
tve  have  the  moral  portraiture  of  a  character  of  great  moral  worth.  Miss  Mercer  was 
a  Christian,  who  earnestly  sought  to  promote  the  glory  of  the  Saviour,  in  persevering 
efforts  to  be  useful  in  every  position,  and  especially  as  a  teacher  of  the  young.  Her 
energy  of  mind  and  elevated  principles,  united  with  humility  and  gentleness,  and  devoted 
piety,  illustrated  in  her  useful  life,  rendered  her  example  worthy  of  a  lasting  memorial. 
The  work  is  accompanied  by  numerous  extracts  from  her  correspondence.  —  Christian 
Observe?:  

The  perusal  of  this  Memoir  will  do  good ;  it  shows  how  much  can  be  accomplished  by 
superior  talents,  under  the  control  of  a  heart  imbued  with  love  to  the  Saviour.  The 
contemplation  of  the  character  of  Miss  Mercer  may  lead  others  to  put  forth  similar 
efforts,  and  reap  a  like  reward. — Christian  Chronicle. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  this  Memoir  without  the  conviction  that  Miss  Mercer  was  a 
v:>ry  superior  woman,  both  in  her  attainments  and  her  entire  self-consecration.  In 
laying  down  the  book,  we  feel  alike  admiration  for  the  biographer  and  the  subject  of  the 
Memoir — Presbyterian. 

WATSON'S  NEW  DICTIONARY  OF  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS. 

A  neat  12mo.  Volume  in  plain  and  extra  bindings. 


A  NEW  DICTIONARY  OF  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS, 

CONSISTING  OF  ELEGANT  EXTRACTS  ON  EVERY  SUBJECT, 

Compiled  from  various  Authors,  and  arranged  under  appropriate  heads, 

3Y   JOHN   T.   WATSON,   3M.D. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE   PRESS. 
We  may  safely  recommend  this  book  as  a  collection  of  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
conceptions,  elegantly  expressed,  to  be  found  in  the  range  of  English  and  American 
!»oetry. — Saturday  Courier. 

We  regard  this  as  the  best  book  of  a  similar  character  yet  published. — Germantown 
Telegraph. 

In  this  Dictionary  of  Quotations  every  subject  is  touched  upon;  and,  while  the  selec- 
tion has  been  carefully  made,  it  has  the  merit  of  containing  the  best  thoughts  of  the 
Poets  of  our  own  day,  which  no  other  collection  lias. —  U.  S.  Gazette. 

The  selections  in  this  book  are  made  with  taste  from  all  poets  of  note,  and  are  classed 
under  a  great  variety  of  subjects. — Presbyterian. 

The  Quotations  appear  to  have  been  selected  with  great  judgment  and  taste,  by  one 
well  acquainted  with  whatever  is  most  elegant  and  beautiful  in  the  whole  range  of 
literature.— Christian  Observer 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON  PUBLISH, 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LIFE, 

A   TRULY   AMERICAN    BOOK,   ENTIRELY   ORIGINAL, 

PRESENTING  A  VIEW  OF  THE  PROGRESS  OF  LIFE, 

FROM  INFANCY  TO  OLD  AGE: 

Illustrated  by  a  series  of  Eleven  Engravings,  beautifully 
executed  on  Steel, 

BY  J.  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 

INCLUDING 

Infancy,  (Vignette  Title,)  Designed by  Schmitz. 

Childhood,  Painted   "  Eichholtz. 

Boyhood,  (Frontispiece,)  Painted "  Osgood. 

Girlhood "  Rossiter. 

Maidenhood "  Rothermel. 

The  Bride "  Rossiter. 

The  Mother "  Rossiter. 

The  Widow "  Rossiter. 

Manhood,  Designed "  Rothermel. 

Old  Age "  Rothermel. 

The  Shrouded  Mirror,  Designed "  Rev.  Dr.  Morton. 

The  literary  contents  comprise  original  articles  in  prose  and  verse,  from 

the  pens  of 

Rev.  G.  W.  Bethune,  Rev.  Cle.ment  M.  Butler,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Mrs 

Osgood,  Mrs.  Hale,  Mrs.  Ellet,  J.  T.  Headlet,  Rev.  M.  A.  De 

Wolfe  Howe,  Miss  Sedgwick,  Rev.  Wm.  B.  Sprague,  Rev. 

H.  Hastings  Weld,  Miss  Caroline  E  Roberts,  Bushrod 

Bartlett,  Esq.-,  Alice  G.  Lee,  Hope  Hesseltine, 

AND   OTHER   FAVOURITE   AUTHORS   OF   OUR   OWN  COUNTRY. 

EDITED  BY  MRS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL, 

And  richly  bound  in  various  styles. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE   PRESS. 

This  is  an  elegant  volume ;  with  an  excellent  design,  comhining  all  that  is  attractive 
in  typographical  execution,  with  beautiful  engravings,  it  illustrates  the  progress  of 
human  life  in  a  series  of  mezzotints  of  the  most  finished  style.  These  handsome  pic- 
tures present  boyhood  and  girlhood,  the  lover  and  the  loved,  the  bride  and  the  mother, 
the  widow  and  old  age,  with  many  other  scenes  that  will  leave  a  pleasing  and  salutary 
impression.  The  literary  department  is  executed  by  a  variety  of  able  and  entertaining 
writers,  forming  altogether  a  beautiful  gift-book,  appropriate  to  all  seasons. — JV*.  Y.  Ob- 


A  most  beautiful  gem  of  a  book,  and  a  superb  specimen  of  artistical  skill,  as  well  as 
a  "Mirror  of  Life."  As  a  brilliant  and  tasteful  ornament  for  the  centre-table,  or  a 
memento  of  affection  and  good  wishes,  to  be  presented  in  the  form  of  a  Birthday, 
Christmas,  or  New  Year's  gift,  to  a  friend,  it  is  richly  entitled  to  the  consideration  and 
patronage  of  the  public—  Christian  Observer. 


The  idea  is  a  happy  one,  and  the  work  is  every  way  worthy  of  its  subject.  Without 
being  too  costly,  it  is  in  every  respect  a  very  handsome  volume;  the  sentiments  it  con- 
tains are  not  only  unobjectionable,  but  salutary;  and  we  cannot  conceive  a  gift  of  the 
kind  which,  between  intelligent  friends,  would  be  more  acceptable  to  the  receiver  or 
honourable  to  the  giver.— JV.  Y.  Commercial. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON  PUBLISH, 

SCENES  IN  THE  LIVES  OF  THE  PATRIARCHS 
AND  PROPHETS ; 

A    COMPANION    TO    THE 

SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SAVIOUR  AND  THE  APOSTLES. 

EDITED  BY  THE  REV.  H.  HASTINGS  WELD. 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED  By 

EIGHT   ENGRAVINGS    ON    STEEL,   BY   SARTAIN. 

INCLUDING 

Saul  presenting  his  Daughter  to  David Painted  by  Woodforde. 

A  View  of  Hebron,  Vignette  Title-page. .. .  "  Bracebridge. 

God's  Covenant  with  Noah "  Rothermel. 

Abraham  Offering  up  Isaac "  Westall. 

The  Arrival  of  Rebekah "  Schopin. 

Jacob  at  the  House  of  Laban «  Schopin. 

Moses  Smiting  the  Rock «  Murillo. 

Elijah  Fed  by  Ravens «  Corbould. 

With  a  choice  Selection  of  Matter  from  the  Writings  of 

Milton,  Hemans,  Wordsworth,  Crolt,  Willis,  Young,  Sigourney, 

Whittier,  Howitt,  Scott,  Heber,  Montgomery,  Milman, 

Hannah  More,  Watts,  Dale,  Tappan,  and  other 

Eminent  Writers  of  this  and  other  Countries. 

Handsomely  bound  in  cloth  gilt,  Turkey  Morocco,  or  in  white  calf. 


OPINIONS   OF   THE   PRESS. 

The  character  of  the  scenes  represented,  the  pure  and  eloquent  sacred  poetry  which 
the  work  contains,  render  it  a  book  peculiarly  befitting  presentation  at  that  season  when 
the  world  is  celebrating  the  birth  of  its  Saviour.  We  hope  this  joint  effort  of  the  \~«ncil 
and  pen  to  render  familiar  the  sacred  scenes  of  the  Old  Testament,  will  meet  the  support 
which  it  deserves  from  all  lovers  of  the  sacred  volume.— Christian  Advocate  and  Journal. 


We  do  but  simple  justice  when  we  declare,  that  it  has  seldom  fallen  to  our  lot  to 
notice  a  book  which  possesses  so  many  and  such  varied  attractions.  Mr.  Weld  has 
gathered  from  the  best  writers  the  most  beautiful  of  their  works,  in  illustration  of  his 
theme,  and  prepared  for  the  reader  a  rich  repast.  We  are  assured  that  the  volume  before 
us  will,  like  those  which  preceded  it.  come  acceptably  before  the  public,  and  be  a  favourite 
offering  during  the  approaching  holiday  season.— Graham's  Magazine. 


It  is  a  handsome  octavo,  beautifully  illustrated  with  encravings  on  steel,  in  Sartain*s 
best  manner.  It  is  published  in  uniform  style  with  "The  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  the 
Saviour,"  and  is  every  way  worthy  to  continue  this  fine  series  of  scriptural  works. 
The  literary  portion  of  the  volume  is  admirably  chosen,  embracing  many  of  the  most 
distinguished  names  in  America.  As  a  work  of  art,  it  is  a  credit  to  the  book-making 
of  our  country.— .Boston  Atlas. 

This  is  pre-eminently  a  book  of  beauty— printed  in  the  best  style,  on  the  finest  and 
fairest  paper,  and  embellished  with  the  richest  specimens  of  the  engraver's  art.  Ita 
contents  comprise  a  choice  selection  from  the  writings  of  celebrated  poets,  illustrative 
of  the  character,  the  countries,  and  of  the  times  of  the  Patriarchs  and  Prophets.  The 
elevated  spirit  and  character  of  the  sacred  poetry  in  this  volume,  as  well  as  its  surpass- 
ing beauty,  will  render  it  peculiarly  valuable  as  a  present  or  an  ornament  for  the  parlour 
table. — Christian  Observer. 


SCENES  IN  THE  LIVES  OF  THE  APOSTLES ; 

ILLUSTRATED    BY 

CELEBRATED  POETS  AND  PAINTERS. 

EDITED    DY 

H.   HASTINGS   WELD. 
Eight  Illustrations,  beautifully  Engraved  on  Steel,  by  Sartain, 


Christ's  charge  to  Peter,  by  Raphael ; 
Peter  and  John  healing  the  Lame  Man  at  the 
Beautiful  Gate  of  the  Temple,  by  Raphael; 


Paul  before  Agrippa,  by  Sartain ; 

John  on  the  Isle  of  Patmos,  by  Decaine. 


The  Redeemer,  painted  by  Decaine  —  Frontis- 
piece ; 

Antioch  in  Syria,  by  Harding— Vignette  title ; 

John  reproving  Herod,  by  Le  Brun  ; 

Christ,  with  his  Disciples,  weeping  over  Jerusa- 
lem, by  Begas ; 

THE  LITERARY  CONTENTS  CONSIST  OF  UPWARDS  OF  SEVENTY  POEMS,  BY 

Bishop  Heber,   Lowell,  Keble,  Hannah  F.  Gould,  Clark,  Mrs. 
Hemans,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Barton,  Bryant,  Miss  Landon,  Tap- 
pan,  Pierpont,  Longfellow,  Miss  Davidson,  Dale,  Cros- 
well,  Percival,  Bowring,  and  other  celebrated  Poets. 

Beautifully  bound,  in  various  styles,  to  match  u  Scenes  in  the  Life 
of  the  Saviour." 

We  do  not  know  where  we  could  find  a  more  elegant  and  appropriate 
present  for  a  Christian  friend.  It  will  always  have  value.  It  is  not  one  of 
those  ephemeral  works  which  are  read,  looked  at,  and  forgotten.  It  tells  of 
6cenes  dear  to  the  hearts  of  Christians,  which  must  ever  find  there  an  abiding 
place. — Banner  of  the  Cross. 

Here  is  truly  a  beautiful  volume,  admirable  in  design,  and  perfect  in  its 
execution.  The  editor,  with  a  refined  taste,  and  a  loving  appreciation  of 
Scripture  history,  has  selected  some  of  the  best  writings  of  ancient  and  modern 
authors  in  illustration  of  various  scenes  in  the  Lives  of  the  Apostles,  whilst 
his  own  facile  pen  has  given  us  in  prose  a  series  of  excellent  contributions. 
The  lyre  of  Heber  seems  to  vibrate  again  as  we  turn  over  its  pages  ;  and 
Keble,  Jenner,  Cowper,  Herrick,  Bernard,  Barton,  and  a  brilliant  host  of 
glowing  writers,  shine  again  by  the  light  of  Christian  truth,  and  the  beaming 
effulgence  of  a  pure  religion.  It  is  an  elegant  and  appropriate  volume  for  a 
Christmas  gift. —  Transcript. 

The  exterior  is  novel  and  beautiful  ;  the  typography  is  in  the  highest  style 
of  the  art  ;  and  the  engravings,  nine  in  number,  are  among  the  best  efforts 
of  Mr.  Sartain.  The  prose  articles  contributed  by  the  editor  are  well  written  ; 
and  the  poetical  selections  are  made  with  judgment.  The  volume  is  a  worthy 
companion  of  "  Scenes  in  the  Life  of  the  Saviour,"  and  both  are  much  more 
worthy  of  Christian  patronage  than  the  great  mass  of  annuals. — Presbyterian. 


The  above  volumes  are  among  the  most  elegant  specimens  from  the 
American  press.  In  neatness  and  chasteness  of  execution,  they  are  perhaps 
unsurpassed.  The  engravings  are  of  the  highest  order;  and  illustrate  most 
strikingly,  and  with  great  beauty,  some  of  the  most  sublime  and  the  most 
touching  Scripture  scenes.  They  also  contain  some  of  the  richest  specimens 
of  Sacred  Poetry,  whose  subject  and  style  are  such  as  deeply  to  interest  the 
imagination,  and  at  the  same  time  to  make  the  heart  better.  We  hope  the 
Christian's  table,  at  least,  may  be  adorned  with  the  volumes  above  mentioned, 
and  such  as  these. — New  England  Puritan. 


LINDSAY  &  BLAKISTON 

HAVE  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED, 

SCENES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SAVIOUR, 

EY   THE 

POETS  AND    PAINTERS: 

CONTAINING 

MANY    OEMS     OF     ART     A  N  D     GENIUS, 

ILLUSTRATIVE     OF 

THE  SAVIOUR'S  LIFE  AND  PASSION. 

EDITED    BY    THE 

REV.   RUFUS  GRISWOLD. 

THE    ILLUSTRATIONS,   WHICH  ARE  EXQUISITELY  ENGRAVED  ON  STEEL, 
BY  JOHN  SARTAIN,  ARE  : 

The  Holy  Family,  painted  by  N.  Poussin  ;  I  Walking  on  the  Sea,  by  Henry  Richter  ; 

The  Saviour,  by  Paul  Delaroche;  |  The  Ten  Lepers,  by  A.  Vandyke  ; 

Christ  by  the  Well  of  Sychar.  by  Emelie  Signol;    The  Last  Supper,  by  Benjamin  West  ; 
The  Daughter  of  Jarius,  by  Delonne  ;  |  The  Women  at  the  Sepulchre,  by  Philip  Viet 

THE  LITERARY  CONTENTS,  COMPRISING  SIXTY-FOUR  POEMS,  ARE  BY 

Milton,  Hemans,  Montgomery,  Keble,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  Miss  I,an- 

don,  Dale,  Willis,  Bulfinc  li.  Bethune,   Longfellow,  Whit  tier, 

Croly,  KJopstock,  Mrs.  Osgood,  Pierpont,  Crosswell,  and 

other  celebrated  Poets  of  this  and  other  Countries. 

The  volume  is  richly  and  beautifully  bound  in  Turkey  Morocco,  gilt,  white 
calf  extra,  or  embossed  cloth,  gilt  edges,  sides  and  back. 

We  commend  this  volume  to  the  attention  of  those  who  would  place  a 
Souvenir  in  the  hands  of  their  friends,  to  invite  them  in  the  purest  strains  of 
poetry,  and  by  the  eloquence  of  art,  to  study  the  Life  of  the  Saviour. — Christ.  Obs. 


The  contents  are  so  arranged  as  to  constitute  a  Poetical  and  Pictorial  Life 
of  the  Saviour,  and  we  can  think  of  no  more  appropriate  gift-book.  In  typo- 
graphy, embellishments,  and  binding,  we  have  recently  seen  nothing  more 
tasteful  and  rich. — North  American. 


We  like  this  book,  as  well  for  its  beauty  as  for  its  elevated  character.  It 
is  just  such  an  one  as  is  suited,  either  for  a  library,  or  a  parlour  centre-table  ; 
and  no  one  can  arise  from  its  perusal  without  feeling  strongly  the  sublimity 
nnd  enduring  character  of  the  Christian  religion. — Harrisburg  Telegraph. 


This  is  truly  a  splendid  volume  in  all  its  externals,  while  its  contents  are 
richly  worthy  of  the  magnificent  style  in  which  they  are  presented.  As  illus- 
trations of  the  Life  and  Passion  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind,  it  will  form  an 
appropriate  Souvenir  for  the  season  in  which  we  commemorate  his  coming 
upon  earth. — NeaVs  Gazette. 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH   THE 

AMERICAN  FEMALE  POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES, 

BY 
CAROLINE    MAY. 

AN  ELEGANT  VOLUME,   WITH  A  HANDSOME   VIGNETTE  TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT  OF   MRS,  OSGOOD, 

The  Literary  contents  of  this  work  contain  copious  selections  from 
the  writings  of 
Anne  Bradstreet,  Jane  Turell,  Anne  Eliza  Blccckcr,  Margaretta 
V.  Faugeres,  Phillis  Wheatley,  Mercy  Warren,  Sarah   Porter, 
Sarah    Wentworth    Morton,    Mrs.    Little,    Maria    A.    Brooks, 
Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney,  Anna  Maria  Wells,  Caroline  Gil- 
man,  Sarah  Josepha  Hale,  Maria  James,  Jessie  G.  M'Cartee, 
Mrs.  Gray,   Eliza  Follen,    Louisa  Jane    Hall,  Mrs.  Swift, 
Mrs.  E.  C.  Kinney,  Marguerite  St.  Leon  Loud,  Luella  J* 
Case.  Elizaheth  Bogart,  A.  D.  Woodbridge,  Elizabeth 
Margaret  Chandler,  Emma  C.  Embury,  Sarah  Helena 
Whitman,  Cynthia  Taggart,  Elizabeth  J.  Eames, 
&c.  &c.  &c. 
The  whole  forming  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  highly  cultivated  state  of 
the  arts  in  the  United  States,  as  regards  the  paper,  topography, 
and  binding  in  rich  and  various  styles. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  PREFACE. 
One  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  the  present  age 
is  the  number  of  female  writers,  especially  in  the  department 
of  belles-lettres.  This  is  even  more  true  of  the  United 
States,  than  of  the  old  world ;  and  poetry,  which  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  affections,  has  been  freely  employed  among  us 
to  express  the  emotions  of  woman's  heart. 

As  the  rare  exotic,  costly  because  of  the  distance  from 
which  it  is  brought,  will  often  suffer  in  comparison  of  beauty 
and  fragrance  with  the  abundant  wild  flowers  of  our  mea- 
dows and  woodland  slopes,  so  the  reader  of  our  present 
volume,  if  ruled  by  an  honest  taste,  will  discover  in  the  effu- 
sions of  our  gifted  countrywomen  as  much  grace  of  form, 
and  powerful  sweetness  of  thought  and  feeling,  as  in  the 
blossoms  of  woman's  genius  culled  from  other  lands. 


LINDSAY  &    BLAKISTON 

HAVE  JUST  PUBLISHED 

THE  WOMEN   OF  THE  SCRIPTURES, 

EDITED     BY     THE 

REV.   H,   HASTINGS   WELD; 

WITH 

ORIGINAL  LITERARY  CONTRIBUTIONS, 

BY 

DISTINGUISHED  AMERICAN  WRITERS: 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED  BY 

TWELVE  SUPERB   ENGRAVINGS   ON  STEEL, 
BY  J,  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 

FROM   ORIGINAL   DESIGNS,   EXPRESSLY  FOR  THE  WORK, 

BY   T,   P,    ROSSITER,   NEW    YORK; 

INCLUDING 


Miriam. 

Hannah, 

Esther, 

Eve, 

Ruth, 

The  Syrophenician 

Sarah, 

Queen  of  Sheba, 

Martha, 

Rachel, 

Shunamite, 

The  Marys. 

Elegantly  Bound  in  White  Calf,  Turkey  Morocco,  and  Cloth 
Extra,  with  Gilt  Edges. 


PREFACE. 

The  subject  of  this  book  entitles  it  to  a  high  place  among  illustrated 
volumes.  The  execution,  literary  and  artistic,  will,  we  are  confident,  be 
found  worthy  of  the  theme ;  since  we  have  received  the  assistance  of 
authors  best  known  in  the  sacred  literature  of  our  country,  in  presenting, 
in  their  various  important  attitudes  and  relations,  the  Women  of  the 
Scriptures.  The  contents  of  the  volume  were  prepared  expressly  for  it, 
with  the  exception  of  the  pages  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Balfour;  and  for  the 
republication  of  her  articles,  no  one  who  reads  them  will  require  an  apology. 
The  designs  for  the  engravings  are  original;  and  the  Publishers  trust  that 
in  the  present  volume  they  have  made  their  best  acknowledgment  for  the 
favour  with  which  its  predecessors  have  been  received.  The  whole,  they 
believe,  will  be  found  no  inapt  memento  of  those  to  whom  St.  Peter  refers 
the  sex  for  an  ensample  :  "  the  holy  women,  in  the  old  time." 


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